


Though I Walk Through the Valley

by melody_in_time



Series: Still Waters (Run Deep) [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-20
Updated: 2014-02-27
Packaged: 2017-12-29 22:59:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 39
Words: 229,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1011124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melody_in_time/pseuds/melody_in_time
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are worse ways a one night stand could end than with "friends, just friends". Being thrown out after a screaming row, being told to leave the country and never come back, being arrested, being murdered, being assassinated by a foreign government, being assassinated by your own slightly panicked Government... All in all, friends, just friends was probably a pretty good result.</p>
<p>So why did Greg almost wish any of the others had happened, and how on earth was he going to get Mycroft to talk to him? As friends, of course.</p>
<p>Just friends...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to Part II! Thanks to everyone still here and reading. I LOVED all the comments you left at the bottom of the last chapter of Rarest. Sorry for not bringing them together like people wanted, but there's no way Mycroft would have gone with that at that stage. 
> 
> By the end of this series, I promise you that every single character will be fully redeemed and getting their happy ending (except Moriarity, because I don't think he deserves it). However, be warned, it will take time to get there and you will probably want to kill each and every character before we reach the end. It's not just about making the characters OC for the way their written, it's also that it bugs me when characters aren't realistic, so they will be slow, passive aggressive, plain old aggressive, misunderstandings, hurt, etc etc.
> 
> Or maybe that's just how my friends relationships all seem to go.... 
> 
> I've put a summary of the warnings for the story down the bottom and will warn chapter by chapter as we go, but if there's anything people think they might be worried by they can check. Just be aware, the warnings will be spoilery. 
> 
> Betaed by imagined_away

Mycroft gripped the edge of the toilet bowl as his body convulsed again. He hated this. Oh, he hated this so much. He wasn’t his brother, he didn’t believe the body was just transport so he always took care of it, and this was how it repaid him? By betraying him again?

He relaxed his white knuckled grip and leant his forehead against the cool porcelain. This was not fair, not so soon after...He forced the thought away and took deep and even breaths. Without moving his head he reached for the flush mechanism, but his hand was gently battered away. Ah, Melibea was back.

She always did try to theme her names. He rather liked this one: Spanish, though exactly what it meant was beyond him at that moment, but he liked it and the syllables drifted through his mind.

“Here, Sir.” Her voice was soft and low.

He was handed a bottle of water and two anti-nausea tablets. She took care of the toilet and then helped him manoeuvre to the ornate mirror where Mycroft tossed back the useless tablets, face twisted with a scowl as he chased them down with water. They only ever dulled the need to vomit from immediate to pressing, but he required them to get through the day.

He hated Mexico. Every time he was here he ended up bent over a toilet in an undignified heap vomiting. He only ever drank bottled water, he brushed his teeth with bottled water, he ate very carefully and avoided salad, but every time...It was the only country he ever insisted on frequent recesses during talks or kept half an hour between meetings. Normally the wasted time chafed him. Here it was a necessity.

Melibea passed him a wet cloth, again bottled water, to wipe his face down and Mycroft endeavoured to make himself look like the last fifteen minutes since the wait staff had served breakfast had been spent in the emergency call he’d faked, not bent over in the bathroom.

“What’s first?” He cleared his throat, then rinsed it out again.

“Welcome meeting with El Presidente. His Bound Sub is expected to be there as well, against the express wishes of his advisors. Apparently he’s quite taken with her. The Americans have the welcome just after you. Are you _sure_ you’re okay, Sir?”

Mycroft favoured her with a small smile. “Happens every time, my dear. I’ll manage.”

“Yes, but normally we have a couple of days Sir, before you,” she paused, obviously unable to work out a polite way to phrase the next part of her statement.

“My body has been through some unexpected trials lately. It must have compromised my immune system.” Mycroft wasn’t really paying attention to the conversation. The anti-nausea medication was slowly lessening the remaining sour edge in his stomach and his mind was once again racing ahead along all the political lines he would have to walk both during the visit and once he returned home. “After the meeting schedule a quick call to London. I’ll need to talk to Baxter about his latest analysis before the eleven o’clock with the Secretary of the Interior. American feeds priority one, Cuban and other regionals - two. We’ll need to make sure we’re not crossing Maxwell’s claims with our own. Also, I’ll need a spot this afternoon for the conference call with Granthorne for the latest on South Africa. His man must have something by now.”

Melibea nodded. “We’re supporting del Rollo then?”

Mycroft adjusted the last few hairs and deemed himself _almost_ done.

“I don’t have time to change the American’s minds, thanks to the latest Korean crisis, and Maxwell is being particularly stubborn about this. Del Rollo is a more favourable option than Muscillio. His policies will be...” He smoothed his jacket and pulled his arms through the sleeves, “problematic for those not on the continent, but at least he’s not in the cartel’s pocket. That must be the first priority else the country is going to spiral even further out of control and I am loathe to think about the effect that will have on their northern neighbours. I don’t have time to continually babysit America and hold Maxwell’s hand every time he has a fright. We got rid of the blasted place after all, at their request I might add.”

Melibea nodded and at his signal collected her blackberry. It really was an invaluable piece of equipment. Without its white noise generator these conversations could never take place outside his office, and even then only carefully. The latest model was particularly useful as Q had integrated a rather sophisticated program that actually projected pre-recorded conversations, rather than merely generating static as white noise, and, most remarkably, was capable of timing them to fit the participants’ actual dialogue. It also detected ambient noises such as the chink of a glass and included them in the projection in real time. The device was even capable, when no pre-recording was selected, of capturing and adjusting the sounds that were being emitted in the immediate vicinity.

Unfortunately this meant anyone who had ears on Mycroft (there were no eyes; Melibea had made sure of that) now thought he was engaged in a sexual relationship with his PA, who was most certainly not his publically Bound Sub (not that he had one but still, scandal nonetheless). Mycroft had already noted ten other dignitaries who actually were having affairs with their assistants, and he’d only encountered twelve so far this visit, so he wasn’t anticipating any problems on that front. To the contrary, it would probably relax them, dignitaries preferring to work with a ‘known’ quantity they felt they had something to hold over, and if it didn’t, well at least one of the Alphas had a very beautiful and entirely Dominant female PA, and was from an entirely intolerant and traditional country.

He wasn’t quite sure if the sound of making love really was the closest match to vomiting, but Q did like his little jokes.

At his signal Melibea disabled the program and they left for the meeting, vague queasiness still hovering in his abdomen.

It was only a week. He could handle a week.

At the smell of some sort of breakfast dish passing, his stomach gave an unpleasant lurch and he resisted the urge to run back into the bathroom.

He _hated_ Mexico.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Evening all. Welcome to Chapter 2 (1 in reality). The chapters start off quite short and then will grow substantially through the story, so this one isn't too long. I'll try to post the next chapter on Friday, but you might have to wait until Sunday depending on my studies. 
> 
> No particular warnings for this chapter.

Greg leant over his desk, pen in hand, ostensibly studying the file in front of him. The fact that no notes had been written, pages turned or photographs shuffled for the last twenty minutes was entirely due to concentration. This was just a really hard sentence that was all.

Nothing to do with his being unable to concentrate on the sentence. No, he was entirely focused on it and, small words or no, it was just a difficult sentence.

With a grimace Greg flipped the file shut and held his head in his hands. Clearly that was not English and when he found the Constable who had thought it funny to give him such a convoluted sentence in a foreign language, with or without small words, they would regret it. Oh he would make them regret it. They’d be begging to be transferred by the time he was done and –

“Sir?” Sally stuck her head around his door.

“Donovan.” He stubbornly left his head where it was. She could deal with talking to the top of his head.

“Are you-” Greg looked up and moved his less than impressed gaze onto her. If she finished that sentence with ‘okay’, ‘alright’ or some other variation then...Sally swallowed. “Finished with that file?”

Greg sighed and pushed himself up off his elbows so he was sort of sitting up straight in his chair. “No. I know we need to close some cold cases, but this thing’s incomprehensible. Totally unreadable.”

Sally stood in front of his desk and, like the dedicated sergeant she was, dutifully nodded as he verbally worked his way into the pinnacle of another black mood.

“And the notes are in blue, not black. Who uses blue? Really?”

Nod, nod.

“If I get my hands on whoever wrote this! Cold case or not, this just isn’t on! They should be understandable, for God’s sake, I mean seriously, who wrote this? I am going to tear them a new one. This is practically in a foreign language; no I bet it is in a foreign language. No one writes like this anymore! Course, I bet it’s from the bloody 80s or something, but that is no excuse. We have to use these files!” Greg opened the front cover of the file and pulled out the information sheet affixed. “I am going-”

His eyes fell on the name of the reporting officer: DI G. Lestrade Sep’10.

Oh.

Not entirely sure he wanted to he slowly raised his eyes to look at Sally. The Dom was chewing her lower lip with a concerned look on her face.

“Uh...” He really didn’t know what to say after that.

“Are you _sure_ you’re alright , Sir?”

There it was, that question again. He hated that question.

“Yeah, fine.”

“Because you’ve been _off_ for a bit now.”

“I’m fine.”

“And you keep saying that.” The ‘and then doing things like this’ was left unspoken.

Greg looked stubbornly back down at his desk. It was his choice to look there, nothing to do with anything else. “I am fine.”

“Is it...Sub troubles, Sir?” Sally’s voice was hesitant.

Greg almost groaned out loud. Sub troubles. If only she knew...

“I’ll have this to you in half an hour.”

“But-”

“That will be all, Donovan.”

Sally gave a long suffering sigh and collected the piles off his desk, leaving Greg the singular folder in front of him. Greg forcibly ignored the fact she’d taken the ones he hadn’t got to yet as well as the completed ones. He’d finish this and go and get more. Simple. It would serve her right for doubting him.

His pencil (when _had_ he put the pen down) snapped in his hand and he cursed voraciously. The metallic clang as the first half landed in the bin did little to soothe him, especially when the second half rebounded off the glass walls of his office instead.

It took him a few minutes to realise there was a low growl filling his office. It took a few moments more for him to realise he was making the sound and stop it.

This, _this_ was why everyone was skating delicately around him, and he knew exactly what the problem was.

It was Thursday.

Once upon a time he’d loved Thursdays. They’d been the highlight of his week, much better than even the weekend. They still were the best night of the week by comparison (not that that was a high standard given his weeks), but they were also the worst by far.

The best because he got to see Mycroft.

The worst because he couldn’t do more than see.

The worst because he could feel how forced and artificial the relaxed and companionable meals had become.

The worst because there was a huge space between them that had never been there before, though they both studiously pretended this wasn’t so.

Oh and it hurt. It always hurt an Alpha when an Omega rejected them, a genetic hangover that twanged at the heart strings of all Unbonded Alphas even if they didn’t particularly _like_ the Omega in question.

To be rejected by your perfect mate who you were head over heels in love with...Greg finally understood heartbreak.

“I do hope I’m not interrupting.” The voice was calm and collected in his doorway.

Surely not? He was _not_ that lucky.

Greg slowly raised his eyes from the sight of the unremarkable pattern on his desk surface to the truly astounding one in his doorway.

Mycroft Holmes stood just inside pulling off his gloves, door already shut against the chatter of the bull pen. His overcoat was still done up, his nose was red, his cheeks were flushed from the February air and there were the remains of dark smudges under his eyes. He looked amazing.

It struck Greg anew every time he saw Mycroft just how handsome the younger politician and bureaucrat really was. He’d always readily acknowledged that the elder Holmes was a very good looking man, but since getting to know exactly how good that body under those suits looked (and felt) he’d be lying if he tried to claim his mouth didn’t become suspiciously dry. Better than suspiciously wet he supposed, the drooling dog look was to be avoided at all costs, and honestly those thighs were just... and his shoulders were ... and his _arse_! The feeling of plunging between those perfectly shaped buttocks was indelibly etched in Greg’s mind.

“Been overseas again have you?” Greg kept his hands tightly on his chair arms. Since their time together he’d found it necessary to hold onto _something_ when the Omega Dominant was around else he’d find himself reaching for him.

Greg wondered idly if Mycroft was even aware how much looser his control was around Greg now, but hadn’t brought it up lest the iron bars fall back down. He’d grown accustomed to the shiver of dominance playing over his skin with Mycroft’s words and couldn’t stand to lose that now. He could handle holding himself still to feel at least some connection with the Omega.

He could also handle not knowing. Mycroft always used to say when he was leaving the country and give a vague mention as to where. On a few memorable occasions he’d actually brought souvenirs back for Greg – small trinkets generic to the regions so Greg never had any additional clues, but little glimpses into the trip nonetheless. Now Greg only knew if he’d be gone over a Thursday.

Mycroft nodded. “Indeed.”

There was silence.

“Australia, actually. Perth. Setting the groundwork for the Commonwealth Heads of Government meeting next year.”

Greg blinked in shock. What? That, that was... he wondered why he was being told and whether the next sentence out of Mycroft’s mouth was going to involve the fact that while he was there something had exploded and he needed to borrow Sherlock for a while.

The Omega took off his great coat and hung it on the back of the chair on the visitor’s side of the desk, but didn’t sit.

“I’m afraid I’ve found myself at a bit of a loss lately.” Mycroft’s voice flowed over every limb of Greg’s body. He swallowed ferociously, mouth suddenly _very_ dry. The way that felt, that had to have been deliberate. “I go to sleep, I dream. I stay awake, I have to fight the urge to pick up my phone. I go to work, I have to discipline myself not to access the live camera stream.” Mycroft steadily made his way around the desk. His fingers dragged across the top of Greg’s chair and Greg shivered. “Whose fault do you suppose this is, Gregory?”

Oh he loved it when Mycroft said his name like that.

“Who do you think is haunting my every moment, awake or asleep?”

Greg drew a shaky breath. God he was almost fully hard already. How did Mycroft do this to him? “I don’t know, M-Mycroft.” He had to catch himself from saying Master. “Who?”

Mycroft was standing directly behind him. And elegant finger tilted his chin until he was looking straight up into the Omega’s face. His very close face.

“Really, don’t you?”

Mycroft’s lips were almost on his. A single millimetre, that’s all it would take.

“M-”

“No, you can’t go in there Freak.” A hand slammed into the door and jolted Greg bolt upright.

Dear God, this was the office and he’d almost-

-          fantasised about Mycroft kissing him.

Disappointment welled up until he felt it choking him. There was no trace of Mycroft in the room – no man, no coat, no gloves. Only Greg, a waking fantasy, and his raging arousal.

Goddamit.

“I’m expected, Sally.”

“Oh really.”

“Yes, I do believe I’m meant to help clean up some of your incompetence.”

Oh, Christ Almighty, Sherlock.

Sherlock snarking with Sally outside his door while Greg fantasised about Mycroft.

Oh Shit and Sherlock would know.

Greg could still remember the horrifying moment Sherlock had barged into his office, first day back after Mycroft’s Heat. He’d been operating in a daze, body on autopilot as his brain attempted to process what had happened: Attempted to come to grips with being forced to acknowledge his feelings and them having them rejected at once; Attempted to comprehend the fact he had just spent the best and most honest time of his life with his best friend and then had his heart ripped out and pulverised.

Friends.

He could do just friends.

Then Sherlock, elegant, annoying and all too knowledgeable Sherlock who had _told_ Greg he’d come by on Monday to give his statement, had done just that. He’d thrown open the door in his usual fashion and had stopped, head to one side. Greg could see him cataloguing the evidence, see the smirk and eyebrow as he knew that Greg had spent the weekend with an Omega in Heat, see the sudden eye widening and jaw dropping amazement as Sherlock realised that that Omega had been his brother.

“Is that so?” He’d asked, eyebrow high, still in the doorway.

Alpha or no, Greg hadn’t been able to keep looking at him. Instead he slouched in his chair and let his gaze travel as it wished becoming stuck under his desk looking at his drawers.

“Yeah.” He’d answered in a raspy voice.

Greg had never appreciated Sherlock more than then when the other Sub, for once showing come comprehension of human emotions, had left the subject there.

Greg still didn’t know how Sherlock had known, maybe there had been a visible bite mark (he wouldn’t put it past Sherlock to be able to identify all his acquaintances by the imprint of their teeth), but the Sub had never brought it up again. When it came down to it he supposed that even Sherlock had some things he didn’t really want to know about his DI and older brother, especially together.

“Leave it alone, Freak. He’s having problems and we don’t need you adding to them.”

“Please-”

“Or have you not noticed. The great Sherlock Holmes oblivious because he can’t feel so he doesn’t see.”

“Au contraire, Sally. I’m just observant enough to know what’s going on.”

The door opened and Sherlock twirled through, slamming it in Sally’s face before she got another word in. He glanced at Greg and then looked away, vaguely guilty.

“Hi.” Greg had to say something.

He’d lost his erection, thank Christ, but he just knew there were traces of what had happened all over him. Not that he could ever see, but Sherlock could probably tell by the creasing in his trousers or something.

“Lestrade. Good, case files? I will of course be taking them home to look at. I’m drowning in the stupidity of your subordinates here.” Sherlock recovered and strolled over to Greg’s desk removing his gloves in the exact way Greg’s fantasy Mycroft had just done.

The sight made Greg’s heart throb, but he pushed it away.

He was forty, he was a professional and he was at work. It had been two months (two months, seven days and fifteen hours. From arriving at Mycroft’s house, that was. It had been two months, four days and eighteen hours since his heart broke.)

“Um, files, case files, um.” He scrambled around his desk looking for the files. “Here.”

He held out the one file before him, which he still hadn’t read, and winced at the incredulous eyebrow his offering was greeted with.

Sherlock looked so much like his brother when he did that.

“Just the one? I had no idea the Yard had been so efficient lately.” Sherlock drawled, casually tucking his gloves into his coat pocket. There was the slightest toss of the curls as Sherlock gracefully collapsed into the chair opposite.

He knew, oh he knew why Greg was so flustered. ‘Pull it together.’ He scolded himself. ‘You’re an Alpha, for goodness sake.’

He peeked up at Sherlock guiltily. “Sally’s got them.”

The sceptical, slightly amused, expression was replaced with an all-out terrifying glare. With a wordless sound somewhere between a growl, a groan and a curse Sherlock snatched the file out of Greg’s hand and stalked off to do battle with Sally over what she viewed, quite correctly, as police property.

He paused in the doorway, and shot Greg a fast blank look.

“Have a good dinner tonight.” Sherlock slipped out the door and with a flourish was gone to wreak havoc on the unsuspecting Yard.

Great, just great. That was just what he needed.

Pity from Sherlock Holmes.

Brilliant.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Evening all! Chapter 2/3 ready for your enjoyment.
> 
> Please note that this chapter is un-betaed. Unfortunately imagined_away has been having some health troubles so if anyone is willing to help out with reading over things before they go up it would be appreciated. 
> 
> No specific chapter warnings. 
> 
> Enjoy the chapter. I'll put the next one up on Wednesday. xx

“So back from overseas then.” Greg speared a piece of the incredibly succulent steak with his fork. The meat practically melted in his mouth.

“Yes.”

Pity it tasted like ash and despair. Since their...since _it_ had happened Mycroft had started selecting fancier and fancier restaurants for ‘his shout’. It had been his shout almost every week. Tonight was undoubtedly five star and there was no way Greg would have been let in if Mycroft’s PA hadn’t met him at the door and escorted him to the table. As it was Greg had caught the Beta Sub waiter mentally reviewing the cutlery numbers twice and suspected that only the flagrant insult that it would be to Mycroft was going to stop them searching him on the way out.

The clatter of knives and forks and the soft murmur of conversation blended with the delicate strains of music being produced by the string quartet in the corner. Every time they finished a piece Greg had to stop himself clapping. They were clearly only meant to be background, despite their skill, and he didn’t need to draw more attention to himself when he already stuck out like a sore thumb.

“How was work?”

Mycroft’s return volley. This was how their conversations were now, verbal tennis matches with neither side admitting defeat. Greg wasn’t sure why they were against each other when the mutual, but unspoken opponent was Discomfort.

“You know, the usual.”

Once he flattered himself that Mycroft would have known intimately everything Greg had done in the day, keeping track of Greg only partially as a way of keeping track of Sherlock. Now Greg wasn’t so sure.

There was silence as both took a bite.

“Dug some cold cases out. Sherlock came by to grab them.” Greg continued once he’d finished chewing.

As he seemed to be more and more these days, Sherlock was their safe, and almost only, topic of conversation.

“He was thrilled I’m sure.” Mycroft’s voice was just the slightest bit warmer at the mention of his brother.

“Not so much.” Greg’s lips twitched and he used the help to create a not _entirely_ fake smile at the memory.

Mycroft’s head tilted upwards in what was, for him, extreme surprise.

“He had to fight Sally for them.”

“Ah.” Curiosity appeased another bite of steak made its way to Mycroft’s lips, the polite way of not saying anything.

The restaurant was definitely something. Large and spacious it managed to create an intimate air with small tables and soft candle light. No harsh fluorescents here, the ambient light level was at that perfect setting to provide maximum flattery to one’s appearance. The patrons were a mix of sombre black and jewel bright splashes of colour. There were more than a few dinner suits among the crowd, and the collars around various Subs’ necks were crusted with glittering jewels and made of velvet, lace and highly expensive looking leather. In his usual grey three piece suit, blue tie, and pale blue shirt Mycroft was among the least well dressed in the room. Greg could have been wearing his best suit, which of course he wasn’t, and he still may as well have been wearing the table cloth as far as the patrons of this place were concerned.

The table cloths themselves were delicate linen, the silverware appeared to be real silver, and the salt salver had been revealed as crystal when Greg had clumsily banged it with his fork... of which he had four.

He had already enjoyed a creamy pumpkin soup with nutmeg and sour cream and some sort of entree with bacon that he really should have been able to identify thanks to his uncle, but he hadn’t had a clue. There had been a salad course and now there was this mouth-watering sawdust steak that probably cost a month of Greg’s wages. It left him wondering what the last fork was for. Dessert?

To the outside observer this probably looked like a good thing, as if Mycroft was courting Greg, taking him out for fancy meals and romantically doing all the ordering ahead of time. Predicting what Greg would feel like eating was child’s play to a Holmes and the man certainly had the money to spend. To the average person the ambient atmosphere with its candles and live classical music screamed date, date, date.

Greg knew otherwise.

When Mycroft had first barged into Greg’s life in his overly protective of Sherlock way, Greg had seen more than a few of these places. At first it had been warehouses and power stations as Mycroft tried to intimidate answers about Sherlock’s life out of Greg by force. Then Greg had a bad day at the Yard – Budget meetings, a murder scene, Sherlock in a bad mood, Sally in a worse mood, paper work, a nasty phone call from his ex-wife – and unable to take it he’d stormed into the waiting black car and upon arriving at the water pump station had sworn at Mycroft until he was blue in the face. The Dom had stood there as implacable as ever, but apparently what Greg had said about being tired and hungry and not having time to be continually and randomly kidnapped struck a chord. After that Mycroft’s car only appeared for him on Thursdays _after_ work and it was an equal, but random divide as to whether Mycroft was in the car and it took Greg home with interrogation en route, or whether Mycroft was waiting at the fancy restaurant du jour.

Greg may not have enjoyed office politics, but he still knew how to play them well enough to recognise more subtle power plays when he saw them. He’d had to learn a lot of the signs in order to successfully masquerade as a Dom, especially one in what was still an overly Dominant dominated workplace. Subtle insults and ego tweaks were standard Dom tactics for intimidation, provocation, standing, and the constant power play that was everyday interaction in a society where half its members were driven to a greater or lesser extent to demand they be the top dog. Outright intimidation had failed, so the more insidious ‘look at the power I wield, the money I have’ messages were Mycroft’s next move.

It had taken six months and several meals where Sherlock was never even mentioned before Greg changed the route home on a Mycroftian lift from the office to go via the local, entirely casual, Chinese. The next week, the calibre of restaurant Mycroft was waiting in dropped by several zeros on the bill.

Now they were back again, eating amazing food and talking about nothing. Only this time, _Greg_ wanted to talk about something, even Sherlock, and _Mycroft_ was barely saying anything.

“I do hope it wasn’t too much of a problem for you.” The silence must have gone on too long. Time for the return play.

For a moment Greg had the sinking feeling Mycroft meant coming to dinner and fumbled receiving the ball, scared that Mycroft was going to propose cancelling Thursdays, but then he belatedly remembered Sherlock and Sally.

“Huh, oh, no. It was...” He paused to think of the word.

‘Good’ was his first inclination, followed by ‘helpful’, because the fight had been very useful for pulling him out of his head and forcing him back into the real world, but considering Sally had had to be restrained, Sherlock had been kicked out, and a window had suffered an unplanned demise courtesy of a flying telephone, neither word seemed socially acceptable.

“Eventful.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, the picture of innocent curiosity. Greg knew he had probably already read the report. Mycroft knew that Greg knew, but he always made Greg say it. Over time Greg had come to appreciate this give and flow, the way Mycroft allowed him to pass on the things he found important in his own way and let them actually have a conversation, but now it just felt like another power play with Mycroft forcing Greg to give up information to prove he could. It was a stupid feeling, but one he was having trouble fighting given the other subtle intimidation tactics which had mysteriously reappeared since Christmas.

He sighed. “Let’s just say John was a valuable aid to returning order.”

Instrumental even. All 5ft 7’’ of pissed off, oatmeal jumper wearing Alpha Dom had done what Greg couldn’t and floored the whole bullpen, Sherlock and Sally included. He’d then taken his, with assurances that Sherlock _would_ be disciplined, and left Greg to yell at the rest.

He’d rather enjoyed that. It had definitely released a great deal of built up tension and he intended to deliver a similar speech to Sherlock, at volume, to remind him he helped the Yard on sufferance as soon as John was done with him.

He also intended to tell him to take some time away from the Yard. Sally’s face after the required punishment strokes had been administered as discipline suggested that their relationship may actually have reached murderous and unstable around Sherlock or not she was a good Sergeant, and maybe even a friend, and he did not want to have to go to her funeral.

Mycroft undoubtedly knew all this given how closely supervised he kept his brother, though he’d become significantly better at not interfering with Sherlock’s life unless it was really truly needed. Greg had previously speculated that part of Mycroft’s over protectiveness was actually guilt. He had been inadvertently responsible for Sherlock’s general lack of respect for Doms and the ‘natural order’ and so tried to bridge the gap between his baby brother and the rest of the world as best as possible. Unfortunately, being the source of, and thus sharing, many of Sherlock’s attitudes and opinions behind his much politer and better adjusted exterior, Mycroft had generally failed miserably. John, to Mycroft’s expressed pleasure, was doing a much better job, today’s behavioural relapse to the contrary.

Once he would have shared this train of thought with Mycroft whose long suffering relationship with his brother had led him to a surprising sympathy for Sergeant Sally Donovan. Now Greg couldn’t even force the words out. Once bitten, twice shy.

“And how is Sergeant Donovan?” Mycroft gave Greg an entirely natural looking smile. Bloody mind reader.

Greg couldn’t help smiling back. It was the first glimpse of his actual friend he’d had all meal. Mycroft always had been able to make him smile with nothing more than a twitch of his own lips.

“Well, angry now.”

Their eyes met and they shared a gentle humour filled glance before Mycroft suddenly broke it and looked down at his plate to select another mouthful.

Greg closed his mouth regretfully. Why had it been open? Had he been going to say more? It didn’t matter now anyway.

“Still waiting for that, what was Sherlock’s turn of phrase-”

“Please don’t.”

No matter which of Sherlock’s insults Mycroft chose to describe Anderson, it would not be particularly polite and Greg did have to work with him tomorrow. It was always harder to face Anderson after hearing one of Sherlock’s creative references, especially as Greg agreed with a lot of them.

“Yeah, she’s still waiting for him to leave his Sub.”

“Pity.”

There was something off about Mycroft’s voice. It probably sounded perfectly natural, but Greg _knew_ Mycroft and his expressions intimately. He hadn’t changed that much (or at all) since they met, though Greg had briefly seen a different side of him, and he knew Mycroft’s diplomat voice when he heard it. It had been a few years since it had been directed at him, but he could still recognise it.

“The two of you are quite compatible and, problem with Sherlock aside, I’m sure she’d make quite a satisfactory intimate partner for you.”

Wine went down the wrong way and Greg ended up coughing and spluttering as it sprayed everywhere. On the linen tablecloth. Red wine on the white linen tablecloth. Greg was too busy staring at Mycroft to feel the glares from the staff. That suggestion was just _wrong_ on so many levels. Utterly unconcerned Mycroft delicately patted the corner of his mouth with his napkin and took a mouthful of his own wine.

“You’re kidding right?” Greg finally managed to choke out. “I mean you, of all people should know... Jesus Mycroft, it’d be like, like...” Greg cast widely for a suitable comparison, “like you sleeping with whatever she’s calling herself at the minute – Katrina!”

“It’s Karina.” A sudden flash of guilt crossed Mycroft’s features.

Greg sat heavily back in his chair. That look... Oh God.

“Oh, oh, so it’s, um, like that is it?”

Mycroft didn’t say anything, lowering his eyes and raising his wine glass to his lips in silent acquiescence.

The world had moved strangely out of focus. Distantly he heard a voice ask “How long?” and belatedly regained control of his mouth.

He didn’t want to know. If it dated back further than December, before them, and had survived then it was serious and _he hadn’t known_. As his _friend_ Mycroft should have told him and it brought home how little he just might mean to the Dom, something he had only started doubting in the dark of the night since _then_. The alternative, that Mycroft and ‘Karina’ had started seeing each other, having sex Greg forced himself to think, since _them_...the idea that Mycroft had so quickly and easily moved on...with, with...

He was glad when Mycroft didn’t answer.

The rest of the meal passed in small blocks of inane conversation from Karina’s current name (due to change to Violet tomorrow apparently, and that had been awkward, but Greg felt obligated to be polite and prove to himself and the world that he was okay with this, even if he wasn’t) to the weather (the weather!!!). Greg declined dessert unable to stomach the thought of any more food sitting like a lead ball in his stomach and put up his usual token resistance to Mycroft footing the bill (he won every now and then, but only when it was a meal he’d chosen). The whole thing was full of stale words and robotic gestures as they each played their roles.

Outside Greg refused a ride home citing grocery shopping to avoid prolonging the uncomfortable evening. Mycroft merely accepted his rather lame excuse, shook his hand, and left without looking back.

It struck Greg as he watched the inconspicuous black car pull away how loud his heart was. His chest felt hollow as it thudded behind his ribcage, no faster than usual, just very, very loud.

He knew of course, why.

Friends.

Just friends.

He could do just friends. He had to, as Mycroft had made it very clear that there was no other choice, but, he swallowed as he felt tears prick his eyes, they weren’t friends, just friends. Everything friendly between them was gone leaving two people clinging desperately to keep something that no longer existed. They weren’t fighting the real enemy, they were fighting each other while Loneliness looked on and cheered – the master watching his slaves fight for his entertainment.

His fingers convulsed in his gloves. God, he needed a cigarette.

He wondered how long until they acknowledged things were over, that their friendship was empty with nothing left. He wondered who would stop fighting for the scraps first.

And what would be left of his heart when they did.

***

She sat there pretending to work on her Blackberry in order to give him space to think. It was perfectly clear from his posture that he needed the space and time, as he did after every meeting with the Detective Inspector these days.

She held back a sigh with very little effort. After five years working for Mycroft Holmes she barely needed to think to control her instinctive reactions. It wasn’t that long ago she resented anything to do with DI Gregory Lestrade – a text and Mycroft would be distracted for ten minutes replying and smiling to himself over the exchange; a phone call and he wouldn’t be able to concentrate for half an hour after they hung up; and Thursdays, do not get her started on Thursdays! Between the gleeful anticipation all day and the practically giddy Dominant who came back after ( _if_ he even did), the whole day had been a write off.

The figure across from her was not grinning, gleeful, giddy, glad or any other word to describe ‘a happy and excited state’. Legs crossed at the knee, elbow resting on thigh, chin balanced on the back of his hand, Mycroft was cool, collected and calm.

She missed gleeful, giddy and grinning.

“You can ask.” He murmured, still facing out the window.

She never could fool him.

“How was dinner, Sir?”

Mycroft sighed and collapsed back against the car seat. “Fine. It was fine.”

Fine. Of course it was fine, ’fine’ and ‘okay’ being the universal descriptions for ‘awful but I’m trying not to say that.’

“Only fine, Sir? Should I arrange a different type of cuisine next time?”

“No, no, the food was more than adequate.” Mycroft’s hand waved dismissively in her direction before returning to support his head.

Well of course it was more than adequate. She knew that. The Red Shield was a five star restaurant with an eight month waiting list (which she bypassed by grace of Mycroft’s position and purse). What she didn’t know was what had gone wrong to change the unusually close and affectionate relationship the two Doms had shared into the tense artificial _thing_ it was currently.

“It’s nothing, my dear.” He still wasn’t looking at her.

She mentally took a fortifying breath. Lord save her from uncommunicative Holmeses. “DI Lestrade looked distracted.”

And exhausted, stressed, upset, in desperate need of a smoke despite quitting almost four years ago, etc.

Mycroft signed and closed his eyes. “He has a lot on his plate right now.”

She knew that wasn’t true. She had, after all, been the one to hand Mycroft the report on the day’s incident at NSY. She was sure that the cold cases were demanding so much of Lestrade’s attention, and he had nothing else on at this time.

“As always, Sir. I’m sure he was pleased to see you. It’s been awhile since the two of you spoke, given we were overseas last week.”

For most people a week was no time at all. For these two a week used to mean intense international negotiations for Mycroft, and even then she knew he bent his own rules and snuck out the occasional text message, unable to not talk to Lestrade for that length of time, though he always denied it.

Mycroft flinched. If she hadn’t been watching for it she would never have seen, he had exceptional control, but she was looking and knowing him so well it was clear as day to her.

“I’m sure.”

She returned to her Blackberry and made a mental note to start digging and find out exactly what was going on. The security cameras at NSY would be a good place to start.

She would find out. If she had to watch every minute of DI Lestrade’s routine for the last six months, she would and she’d use every camera in London to ensure she didn’t miss a thing.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good evening all! Thanks for the multitude of comments. I loved reading every one of them. A big thanks to the people who volunteered to help read through this. Very much appreciated.
> 
> In the mean time, have Chapter 4 (3). For all those waiting for a mini-break from the angst, you're going to have to hold out a few chapters. Sorry. 
> 
> No particular chapter warnings yet.

Greg stared at the phone in his hand forcing himself to just slow everything down and categorise what he was feeling. Most obvious was the adrenaline rush. He could almost hear the chemical reactions exploding through his body. He could definitely feel their effects. There was a large heaping of guilt took churning in his stomach. And sad, he felt sad. Heartbroken even, though that wasn’t unusual these days.

And relieved.

The last one terrified him the most and made him honestly feel like excusing himself to bawl his eyes out in the station bathroom, un-Alpha like as that may be.

He’d just cancelled on Mycroft, and he felt relieved. _Relieved_. Relived that the monthly budget meeting was going to run massively overtime and that he had an excuse _not_ to meet Mycroft.

Were things really that bad?

With difficulty he dragged his attention back to the riveting discussion about who had been exceeding their overtime budgets, which were bogus and unrealistic anyway. If Greg charged even a third of the overtime he did... well, his budget would be blown in a week without any help from his team at all. He wondered absently whether he could charge staying late for the meeting as overtime and smiled at the irony of it.

The room was packed with entirely unenthusiastic participants, the lucky of whom had managed to snag seats. The rest were leaning against walls shifting their weight awkwardly from side to side and trying not to slump too much when the Detective Chief Superintendent looked in their direction.

Greg secretly enjoyed the respect (and fear) the Super inspired. Okay, Packenham had maybe received his position more because his Uncle was in government than any true detective abilities, but he was also the first ever Beta Sub to rise so high in the Yard and Greg enjoyed the smug feeling that two years later the fellow Sub was not only still at his post, but was thriving and had even managed to wrangle some improvements for their division. Served all the doubters right, in his opinion, and about bloody time. It had taken an adjustment period, but by now all the Alpha grumbling and Dominant posturing had subsided to the occasional night in the pub where some of the lads got a little too enthusiastic. Greg would have preferred someone with a little more credit while in the ranks had got the post, but no one could deny that awful cop though he had been, Packenham was a brilliant organiser.

Didn’t mean Greg liked the guy. Respected him, obeyed him, even felt proud of him, but he didn’t like him as a person. Packenham reminded him too much of a weasel for Greg to really like him, but there was no rule saying he had to like his boss, so that was fine, all fine.

His mobile buzzed softly in his hand, but Greg managed not to look until the Super’s attention had wondered over to Gregson who looked like he was about to fall off his chair sideways any second he was listing so much. Greg refused to feel any sympathy for the other Alpha. If he would just call Sherlock then he wouldn’t need to be pulling twenty-four hour shifts attempting to track down his murderer. Greg was fairly sure Sherlock had been tracking the case in the papers and already knew, but was keeping his opinion to himself after the last time he’d attempted to help Gregson unasked had ended up with him being thrown into the cells on a trumped up drugs charge. The drugs tests proved that Sherlock was completely clean and when he’d been let out the Omega had spent the next half an hour in Greg’s office reeling off his deductions, and in the process proving one man in lock-up innocent and convicting three others of crimes they weren’t being held for.

At that point John had burst in and Greg had surrendered his office to allow the frantic Dom to reassure himself that his Sub was alright. Greg had taken the chance to pop out to the coffee machine to re-caffeinate as the glass walls of his office were not doing much to hide _how_ John was reassuring himself Sherlock was in one piece, but had been saved from the shoddy Yard stuff by Mycroft’s PA who had pressed a steaming fresh cup from the local coffee shop into his hand instead.

Mycroft himself had apparently been going to town on Gregson.

Greg had spent longer after Mycroft had finished his creepy overprotective older brother routine calming the Dom down before he tried the same on Sherlock, which would not have gone well, than he’d had to spend with Sherlock after the Sub had been released, but then, in those days, spending time with Mycroft, especially time with Mycroft where he dropped almost all his barriers and was ranting and raving and pacing with his umbrella waving wildly, was good.

Had Mycroft already been sleeping with her? No, it didn’t matter.

Taking advantage of the brief window of opportunity he unlocked his phone and opened the message.

_If you need we can put a hold on meeting until your schedule clears. Merely inform me when you’re free. ~ MH_

Greg flinched. Distantly he was aware of an increase in noise but it all flowed past without recognition. Oh, oh. So this... he gulped.

“Lestrade?”He started as a hand was laid on his shoulder. DI Whiting gave him a concerned look.

“Right, um,” Greg looked around, expecting a room of questioning stares. Instead he saw pushed back chairs and general kaffluful as people attempted to get out the door as fast as possible. “Um?”

Whiting straightened and let his hand fall from Greg’s shoulders. Alphas generally weren’t big on casual physical contact with each other, the Dom in them finding it too challenging. Greg appreciated this as he wasn’t big on it either for his own reasons. It was easier to keep up his act without physical touch.

“The Super called a coffee break after Dimmock started yawning.”

Greg frowned. Hadn’t he just been yelling at Gregson?

“Think it was a bit much on top of Gregson.” Whiting was speaking very carefully and still half wearing his own concerned frown. “Lestrade, are you okay?”

“Huh, yeah, fine, fine.” Greg jumped to his feet. “I’m just going to go, you know, wash my face. Ten minutes yeah?”

“Fifteen. Are you-”

“Jesus H Christ, I am fine!” Greg stormed out of the room, elbowing a couple of people out of the way in his haste to make it through the door.

He automatically turned right towards the smaller bathrooms at the back of the building – much dingier, but never anyone in there – and let his feet carry him.

So, what was that? Was that Mycroft saying he wanted to stop seeing Greg, or was it him being genuinely considerate and offering to work around Greg’s schedule? Greg’s not particularly full schedule, which Mycroft _must_ know, or was it Mycroft trying to work out whether Greg wanted to see him?

He grimly splashed water on his face, pausing with his head in his hands longer than he really wanted to think about before dropping them to the edge of the sink. He remained there, slumped over the dreary unit, trying like mad not to think.

Or feel.

Or be.

Objectively he knew why all this was happening. Friendships the world over were screwed up by one night stands, and this had been a little bit more than a one night stand.

Sort of.

It had gone longer.

It meant more.

To him.

Anyway, the point was objectively he knew there would be problems, things to be resolved, and had someone come to him in the same situation his advice would have been to sit down and talk it out patiently. He’d love to be able to follow his own advice, but after Mycroft’s abrupt treatment of the matter on the dreaded morning after, and his emergency meeting which suddenly appeared the next time Greg attempted to bring it up, it was fairly clear talking was not going to happen for a while.

If ever. After all, they couldn’t get through one awkwardly formal meal without lingering tense silences. Greg missed the casual Chinese, the movie nights, the bowling (once and only once, but still) so much it was a literal ache.

It was no mystery why they’d gone. Mycroft had experienced a shock, his life turned upside down and in response he’d fled to safety – the world of razor sharp fancy meals and formal attire that was his stronghold, just as it had been when he’d been attempting to cow Greg about Sherlock. This was a power play designed to intimidate Greg and reassure Mycroft. Greg doubted Mycroft even realised that the really swish suits (the ones worth three months of Greg’s wages not one) were back to sole possession of Thursdays as Mycroft brought their relationship to a position he felt he could control.

He’d seen Mycroft in track pants once. Only once after an unscheduled dive into the Thames after Sherlock (John had been restrained by officers who hadn’t known to stop Mycroft as well and Greg had been too far away to reach the Omega in time to stop him himself), but he had seen it. Once upon a time, Mycroft had trusted him that much.

He wanted that back. Oh the sex had been good (fantastic, amazing, mind blowing), but he knew a romantic relationship wasn’t possible. Neither of them could reveal themselves to the public without serious repercussions, potentially deadly ones for Mycroft given the political stage he played on, and if Greg had been willing for the world to think him gay it just wasn’t possible for Mycroft to make the same sacrifice with his job. That was assuming Mycroft even _wanted_ a romantic relationship, and he had made it very clear he didn’t. He had a _girlfriend_ for Christ’s sake. A very attractive, very proficient, very young girlfriend.

Greg wondered absently whether Omegas could sire children on a woman. He couldn’t recall even hearing of such a case, but who knew.

He let his thoughts tumble wildly for a few more minutes, catching fragments of thought as they rushed past in his mind: I’m old, we need to clean this bathroom, he’s amazing, buy milk, check Trent’s alibi, I love him, I can’t live without him.

Greg drew a firm line at the last thought and dragged himself out of his mental stupor. This was ridiculous. No matter what he felt for Mycroft, he was a forty year old professional policeman, not a sixteen year old school kid. There was no need at all to be so melodramatic. They weren’t Bonded and even if the worst should happen he could and would live a productive life without Mycroft Holmes.

‘But a happy one?’ His mind asked.

No, he acknowledged, not a happy one. Denying that he’d lost his heart to the Omega Dom and that he wasn’t getting it back was as stupid as the overly melodramatic thoughts he’d been having.

He knew that. He’d be pragmatic. He could cope.

Greg felt his mind draw back to a week ago as he’d stood watching Mycroft’s car leave him behind, just like the Omega himself, and accepted that he had his answer. He didn’t know who would stop fighting first... but he knew it wouldn’t be him.

Mycroft was the most important relationship he’d ever had, and even if it meant grinding his heart to ash, sitting in the back of the church as Mycroft married _her_ , even if it sucked him dry, he would do it.

He loved him. He could never leave him, and he would fight for their friendship until he died.

With trembling fingers he texted Mycroft back.

_Nonsense. Next week, my shout. – GL_

He stared at his phone a few more moments, listening the beat of his heart in his constricted chest as he did so often these days, and then returned it to his pocket.

“Lestrade? You in there?” Whiting pushed the door open and gave Greg a quizzical look. “We’re about to start back.”

“All right.” Greg belatedly realised the tap was still running and turned it off, and then back on again to splash his face one last time. “I’ll be right there.”

“We’re waiting for you, so be, you know, quick.”

“I’ll be there.” Greg mumbled into his hands.

The water felt good running down his face and neck. He didn’t care it was soaking his shirt collar or dribbling down his back.

The tap turned off. “Lestrade, Greg, what’s going on?”

Greg turned a glare on Whiting, but the other Alpha didn’t back off the way Sally or the Betas on his team did.

“Don’t glare at me. You were the best until three months ago.” 2 months, 11 days Greg mentally corrected. 2 months, 10 days since the Yard would have seen him. “Now you’re all over the place, you’re snappish, and you look like shit. The only reason the Chief and the Super haven’t pulled you in for a chat is that you’ve kept your stats up – improved some of them even.”

Work, even paperwork, when he _could_ focus on it helped keep his mind off _other things_. So whenever he could focus, why not? It’s not like he had anyone to go home to, and it beat drinking himself into oblivion. Too great a chance of John noticing that anyway, the younger Alpha being almost fanatically observant of Alcoholism after his sister.

Work, on the other hand, John accepted as a ready excuse. He was Bonded to Sherlock and had a rather irregular view on what constituted proper and appropriate working hours after Afghanistan. As long as Greg kept him in the dark about exactly how like Sherlock his current routines were, John wouldn’t give him any grief. There was no one else who would notice or care. Mycroft certainly hadn’t commented, or shown up to drag him out of the office like he used to, takeaway in hand.

“So what’s up?” Whiting finished. He didn’t move, keeping one hand on the tap deliberately in Greg’s personal space, blocking the way to the door.

“It’s nothing.”

Greg dried his face on his sleeve and pushed away from the bench, making it very clear with his body language that he wasn’t going to talk. The move had the added benefit of giving himself more distance between the two of them, reducing the Sub’s need to please the Dom by pouring everything out at his request and relaxing the Alpha whose space was threatened. Greg did not do well in close proximity to other Alphas at all.

“Right.” Whiting sighed, but took the withdrawal as an entirely acceptable act. “We’re not that close, so fair enough, but Greg, consider this a friendly bit of advice: talk to someone, cause the Chief is serious about pulling you in if you don’t improve soon.”

“It’s not affecting my work!” Greg snarled defensively.

The work was all he had, his lifeline that was keeping him above the water as he fought to regain his previous precarious equilibrium. There were times he hated Mycroft for waking up his Sub side. He was having a lot of trouble putting it away again, which was a bit not good in a station full of Alphas and other Doms.

“It’s making you almost impossible to work with. You’re unpredictable.”

Of course he was unpredictable, vacillating between Alpha, and Sub, and overcompensation.

Greg pushed passed and headed back to the meeting. He didn’t need to hear this. He was trying, Goddamit.

“ **Greg**!” There was just enough dominance in Whiting’s call Greg had to turn, though he made it appear nonchalant and by choice, and raised an annoyed eyebrow. “Be careful. An unpredictable Alpha is a liability, you know that. Settle down or you’ll be out.”

Greg turned and walked off without a word, his fingers curling into fists, heart in his mouth. Was he really that bad lately?

He already knew the answer.

Shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you hanging out for Mycroft's POV, it's coming up in the next chapter!
> 
> See you Sunday!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Morning all. As promised, here is the first glimpse into Mycroft's mind, which will probably give you an idea of how far these two really have to progress. The chapters will start getting a little longer from here, which I suspect you'll all be quite happy about. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy it!
> 
> Warnings: gratuitous sex, incredible ignorance and denial of self (ie. Mycroft being Mycroft)

_Nonsense. Next week, my shout. – GL_

The message sat there, a glowing light in an otherwise rather dim office. He always preferred the lights down low; all that he required to work was the fire and a single desk lamp. Arum (apparently the current theme was floral. He would have preferred Lilly, but Arum it was) kept the lights turned up during the day, but acceded to his wishes in the evening. It was the closest the office had to a natural light cycle as there were no windows (too much of a security risk).

Mycroft steepled his fingers as he studied the mobile glowing on the antique walnut desk. The screen lasted through only a few more seconds of his gaze before it switched off in power saver. He kept staring at it, but didn’t reactivate the screen. There was no need – he had the message well and truly committed to memory.

Arum was moving around the exterior room that acted as a small antechamber to his office performing all the mundane tasks she was in charge of as his secretary and PA in addition to her more _specialised_ duties. It was only a small room, big enough for her desk, a couch, the vast array of filing cabinets, another fireplace, three bookshelves ostensibly full of legal texts and accounting reports, and a large leafy potted plant ( _Ficus benjamina_ or the Weeping Fig, he believed). From the sounds that filtered through he suspected she was reviewing the daily reports and prioritising them: things he needed to be told about in a single line, things he needed to be told about in a paragraph, things he needed to read a full summary for, things he needed to read, and things he needed to read and deal with. He already had the summary report on his brother, along with a note that the report writer had been scheduled for a Continuous Learning Seminar on grammar. She really was incredibly efficient. His life would be so much more difficult without her.

He should finish reading the transcript of the latest conversation between the Americans and the Koreans. It was sitting in its inconspicuous manila folder _right there_ at his elbow. The Budget was ready for his review underneath it, and the list of candidates for Prime Minister after the next election that Arum had compiled at his request was waiting in his inbox. He didn’t move, giving himself just a little longer.

The fire popped and the logs shifted sending up a small cloud of sparks. The fireplace was one of the sole indulgences in his office and one of the few overt indications of the power wielded from this room. Let the Cabinet Minsters occupy their sweeping halls with grand windows and huge spaces. When Mycroft needed to impress and didn’t want to open his sanctuary he merely borrowed one of the rooms for as long as he needed. Anyone who came _here_ had power impressed upon them in spite of the lack of grand features.

Besides, this office was old and had been occupied by a Holmes since the building was rebuilt in 1840. Of course, the family had enjoyed rooms in Westminister Palace longer than that, but the current furnishings dated to the rebuilding works after the fire. He had contemplated moving his office, to Number 70 next to 10 Downing St for example, but had decided too much would be forfeit. Being called in for a discussion rather lost its sting when the Prime Minister only had to walk next door.

And the history! Oh the history that would be sacrificed. The floor to ceiling hand carved bookcases, nothing flashy, merely the royal crest carefully carved into the sides and the border at the top; the ceiling with an English Rose of ruby inlaid at the centre and wood lovingly maintained for almost two hundred years so it shone; and of course, the marble fireplace which was so useful during the cold months, also a royal tribute, but more meaningfully for Mycroft with the Holmes crest chiselled into the stonework next to the royal emblem. All of them understated – no bright colours, or velvet or over adorned flourishing edges to collect dust.

Mycroft, as all the Holmes had, subscribed to the idea that if you had to tell people how powerful you were, you weren’t. The room was proof that power did not need to be ostentatious to exist – and none of the privilege few who made it through the door doubted where the true British Government resided.

From this room Mycroft had chosen Prime Ministers, destroyed MPs and Lords, and collapsed governments both at home and overseas, yet a casual inspection of the building plans and trip to the exterior waiting room displayed nothing any mid-level departmental secretary would fight for, belonging to a long time, low level bureaucrat and part-time diplomat, as required.

Fools the lot of them.

Mycroft was well aware of his abilities. He could start a war in an instant, prevent one in a day, and finish one in a week, if he was willing to pay the price. (These things were always harder to resolve than create, itself a damning commentary on the human condition.) He could have a complete dossier on anyone on his desk in a day, a week absolute maximum if they were no one important and the basic profile hadn’t been compiled. An hour if they were military or government. Thirty minutes for Special Forces, Cabinet or MI6 – and 20 minutes of that was printing and transporting the hard copy.

And none of this was helping with his current predicament.

He could negotiate a deal between different feuding countries to everyone’s perceived benefit...yet he couldn’t figure out what to do about one New Scotland Yard Detective Inspector.

With concerted effort Mycroft managed not to frown at his phone. He _was_ pleased with Gregory’s response. As much as he disliked admitting it, there had been no small amount of heart-thudding consternation while he waited to see whether Gregory Lestrade would choose to take the offered path of egress.

Gregory had clearly been uncomfortable since their liaison, though the Submissive hid it well and it was bothering him less as time went on – why at the last dinner he’d even smiled a proper Gregory-smile. He’d handled Mycroft’s insinuation well, though he’d been shocked at the suggestion that he should maybe regard Sally Donovan in such a light, so clearly the lingering effects of whatever Estrus induced affections Gregory had held were fading. With time Gregory would completely move past the lingering sense of obligation his inherent nobility required he display and things would go back to normal between them.

Now all Mycroft had to do was do the same.

It had been harder than he had thought it might be, making that suggestion to Gregory. Sally Donovan was a good woman and everything he’d learnt about her indicated that she would be very compatible with Gregory – his Alpha nature would surely make up for the fact that she seemed to prefer Dominants despite claiming not to be gay. He was after all a very strong and admirable Alpha, and surely that would be enough. She was most certainly a better choice than the few Submissives Gregory had flirted with at the pub since December. He’d stopped keeping track after Gregory’s third night out, telling himself it was because it was a waste of resources rather than admit that he couldn’t handle the continual heart pounding terror when Gregory reciprocated with his own flirtatious comments and the sharp relief when he didn’t take them home.

No, Gregory would do much better with someone like Sally Donovan, and Mycroft would always have the satisfaction of having brought them to the point where they realised it. That would make up for the churning sensation in his stomach. Next time he suggested it, he would absolutely _not_ be relieved when Gregory brushed off the idea as laughable and _would_ expend effort convincing him of the idea’s merits.

With an angry growl he turned his mobile over and opened the first file. There was no need to text back, and soon this lingering sentimentalism would fade too. He hoped it cleared up faster than that damn stomach bug he picked up in Mexico. He’d only recently been able to face his breakfast again and he suspected he’d somehow developed a psychosomatic aversion to eggs – the smell of one reminded him of that worse than usual week and made him want to vomit. He had ended up switching from properly balanced breakfasts full of protein, including eggs, to fruit instead. Grapes and yoghurt specifically, and so far he’d decided he quite fancied the grapes and now kept them at the office for whenever he felt peckish, unfortunately an increasingly common occurrence. Stress eating had always been his downfall, though more in his youth than now, and if he didn’t stop soon he’d have to get new suits tailored and wouldn’t Sherlock love that, but every now and then he just really wanted a grape or three, especially if they came with tabasco sauce.

Mycroft was halfway through the last of the reports, Sherlock’s daily activities (which he always left for last in case his brother’s latest reckless act left him in no mood to finish his actual tasks), before Gregory’s name came up. Apparently John had decided it was an appropriate time for Sherlock to hear Gregory’s lecture leftover from his appalling behaviour the week before, and a whole page was dedicated to the time, length and subject matter of Gregory’s visit to 221B. At the sight of the Submissive’s name Mycroft felt an odd pang in his chest.

Stupid, he thought, pushing it away. There was no reason to feel lonely. Gregory wasn’t gone; they were meeting next Thursday for dinner again. They’d missed the Arsenal game Gregory had been threatening to drag him to for six months now, but that didn’t matter. It was probably best, given Mycroft’s profession, that he kept their relationship slightly less familiar than it had been. Ultimately Mycroft couldn’t afford to have close friends, and as was clearly evidenced, Gregory had got too close. He’d known this for a while now and had let his self-indulgent behaviour go, addicted as he was to the give and take that was their relationship.

Did those reasons really apply anymore? He couldn’t usually let people get too close in case they discovered his secret, but Gregory already knew and –

No, of course they still applied. It was incompatible with his work. Full stop. Too many close associations and people became targets, weak points to be exploited against him. He couldn’t afford that, especially with the way the global climate was at the moment and the utterly incompetent government he had to work with. At the end of the day, after all, Mycroft relied on other people and he was only as good as his tools – none of which were currently very impressive. He couldn’t afford the time, if nothing else. Sherlock was more than enough to keep track of.

The good Detective Inspector understood the demands of a profession that was both a vocation and life choice. He would understand why Mycroft needed to step back from being such close friends. They would serve optimally as friendly acquaintances. It was enough.

It hadn’t been enough before. Before he’d wanted, needed, to see as much of Gregory as possible. The Thursdays he was unable to keep their rendezvous had been icy black holes in his life. Gregory had been his warmth and light, his time to relax and be Mycroft, not Holmes or Mr Holmes or Sir or any of the other titles thrown in his direction over the day.

Mycroft, just Mycroft, and occasionally when Gregory slipped, My, though Mycroft suspected if the Submissive ever learnt exactly how often that endearment had passed his lips over the past couple of years he’d die of shame.

Mycroft licked his lips. Since finding out Gregory was a Submissive it had gone from a friendly nickname, too casual for Gregory to truly feel comfortable with awarding him, but heart-warming nonetheless, to a much more meaningful endearment. Had Gregory cared that long, or had the name changed meanings for him too?

My.

Mine.

It didn’t matter. He’d survived without such an unreasonably demanding relationship for over thirty years prior to Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade. He could and would do it again.

Oh, but Gregory had looked good in his bed, body flushed from their exertions, hands restrained behind him and come here eyes begging for more of whatever Mycroft would give him, tender or harsh. So strong, so gentle, so biddable...

No.

Mycroft waded through the rest of the inconsequential tasks he had to do, and if he avoided finishing the report on Sherlock it was merely because he trusted his assistant to have everything in hand. Arum would have alerted him to any urgent items and it was getting late. He had no doubt she’d appreciated going home soon, and she made a point of not leaving until he did.

Although...he leant back in his chair and closed his eyes. Taking a deep breath in he forced every muscle to relax in turn. It had been some time...

‘Sir?” Her voice drifted gently to his ears.

He’d always liked her voice. Nice and low, not squeaky and thin like so many women. A pleasant voice, one capable of so many subtleties and persuasions.

He knew she saw the change in his mood as soon as his half-lidded eyes reached her face. He made it take time, travelling up her legs, along the smooth sweep of her hip, the less than gentle and entirely generous swell of her chest, her neck, hidden mostly by her hair, until finally her eyes. She smirked as she read him in a well-trained glance and her body language changed subtly. Ready to play, but she was going to make him work for it.

“My dear.”

He deliberately pitched his voice lower than usual and enjoyed watching her shiver entirely from the sound. No dominance, not yet. Not until she agreed, which she had yet to do. Sometimes she’d drag it out for hours before making that vital change and consenting. There was certainly something to be said for playing with a Switch.

He would only ever use Dominance when she was in the Submissive dynamic. The one time they’d tried while she stayed Dominant had been intense and explosive, but too dangerous to do again. She was not a low level Dominant, which made her such a glorious Submissive when she did chose to reverse her dynamic, and the conflict had almost overtaken the sex.

She always made him work for her change, using charm, seduction, all the tools the less Dominant and Submissive members of society who weren’t far enough on either side of the scale to have partners begging at their feet used. He enjoyed the challenge.

Which she knew, and tonight was going to be a challenge, he could tell.

Perfect.

“Are you finished with those files?” Her voice was just that little bit huskier now, and he was not imagining the slight sashay of her hips as she glided to the edge of his desk.

_Wrong_.

No, glorious. She kept her body in very good shape, she wasn’t just there for filing, and the visual she presented perched on the edge of his desk was astounding. Her skirt only slightly rucked up by her pose, and already she could have most people, Alpha, Beta, Omega or Female, on the ground begging. He’d seen it, but then, he wasn’t most people.

His eyes wondered lazily over her figure as he reclined in his chair affecting nonchalance. This would be very good. It was overdue.

In defiance of a slight twinge of discomfort he leant forward and smoothed her hair back from her neck. To check the scratch she’d received during training that morning, of course. If his fingers lingered over the newly revealed expanse it was naturally only a coincidence as he traced the thin, fading line. Not that either of them believed that.

“I do believe I am, my dear.” His hand fell away, knuckles lightly grazing the top of her collar bone as they passed.

“Then should I lock them away for the night, Sir?” The return move - the slightest moving of the shoulders to push her chest forward, the questioning tilt of the head to accidently reveal more of the neck, the slow, but deliberate hand motion to reveal the smooth and vulnerable skin of the inner wrist.

“I suppose so,” He murmured, “though I was considering reviewing some of the policies before leaving tonight.”

She leant forward to collect the files on the desk. The movement pushed her body tantalisingly close to his, just ruffling the sleeve of his jacket. With a sultry look and a definite swing of the hips she sauntered out of the room.

Mycroft allowed a tight smile to spread across his lips. She was without a doubt the perfect blend of challenge and reward, danger and satisfaction, predator and prey. He enjoyed the hunt as much as claiming his prize and she always gave a good chase, refusing to roll over to his every whim, but Submitting so beautifully when she did.

Just like Gregory.

He pushed the thought away. While the combination of Alpha and Submissive had created a uniquely stimulating and invigorating experience, it would not be happening again.

The distinctive sounds of the filing cabinet retreating back into the wall filled him with satisfaction. If she was closing the false front it wouldn’t be long now. Almost as if his thoughts had summoned her she appeared in the doorway. He drank in the sight of her. Somehow without changing anything her previously decorous office attire now looked positively sinful. She didn’t hurry, placing each black stiletto precisely in line as she moved back to the desk and him. He wondered if her stockings went all the way up to her waist or if he’d been lucky enough to pick a day with suspenders. She looked ravishing in suspenders.

“Do you think this review might take long, Sir?” Sultry. Definitely sultry. She stopped and leant over, placing one palm on the desk, the other delicately on her waist.

It gave him a very good view down her steel grey blouse. Mmmm, the black lacy one that was practically no barrier at all. He liked that one. He’d given it to her about a year ago and had very much enjoyed its trial run. Without any shame at all he slid the top button out of its hole, letting her top gape wide open to give him a better view.

“My dear,” he purred up at her, “I expect it will take hours.”

She met his gaze with a heated one of her own. “Then I suggest you take your jacket off, Sir. No point getting creases if we’re going to be working.”

No one’s voice should be able to make taking his jacket off sound like removing the final layer of clothing rather than the first. With a single smooth step she moved to the corner of his work space and held out her hand. Mycroft shrugged it off and used the brief window she was turned away to let a frown flit across his face. That gaze, that voice... usually when their eyes met like that there were almost corporeal fireworks. Obviously he was still not back to normal after- well this would help with that.

Arum finished fussing with his jacket and Mycroft mentally cursed as he realised he’d just missed what would have been a delightful show of leg and limb. Time to stop drifting, put the past behind him, and return to the here and now.

Suddenly impatient and loath to drag out their usual game, he gestured her closer. With a smirk which screamed ‘You can do better than this’ she acquiesced. Another button on her blouse slipped loose as her fingers ran provocatively down the front of her shirt. The firelight made the steel grey glint and shimmer, emphasising the matt black slowly coming into view as each button unfastened letting him see more and more of her body.

Oh yes.

“So what did you want to review, Sir?” She didn’t stand in front of his desk like before, but moved behind it and lifted herself gracefully onto its surface. One stocking clad leg dangled, the other crossing over at the knee giving a tantalising glimpse of thigh under the black pencil skirt.

Oh and it _was_ a suspender day. Delightful.

Mycroft settled back in his chair, keeping the ever so slight imperious lift to his chin. She would read the ultimatum, the warning, Dominant to Dominant, that he was in charge. “I was hoping, my dear, that you would be able to help...streamline things.” A lazy finger traced small circles on her ankle.

“Is that so?” She answered his challenge with one of her own, pushing him back with her shoe and oh so coincidently spreading her legs before him. “With what, Sir?”

Without warning Mycroft leant forward and pulled her off the desk and onto his lap. She let out a small gasp which quickly turned to a breathless moan as he nuzzled her neck.

“I do believe you’d be the person to ask about which files we reviewed last time. We wouldn’t want to repeat a review now, would we?” He finished his statement with the smallest of nips, barely catching the skin of her neck with his teeth.

She didn’t smell quite right. New soap maybe?

One hand moved up her lean thigh, pushing her skirt up to her waist and moving to clasp the round globe of her buttock. Lace, very high cut, which matched the bra. The other hand finished undoing the buttons on her shirt as he laid gentle kisses, interspersed with warning nips, along her collar bone. She gentle arched into his caress. Almost there. She’d flip and be his soon.

“I might just be able to help there, Sir.” She was most delectably breathless with just the slightest of catches in her voice. He would have been disappointed with more, given the extensive training she’d had.

He circled one nipple flicking over the nub with dangerous softness. The more gentle the caress now, the more extreme the sex later. The lace felt slightly rough under his finger, catching on his slight calluses, but allowing him to feel the warmth, softness and texture of her skin. It was an arousing combination.

When it was erect and straining though the lace, he lifted her breast and drew the sensitive flesh into his mouth. He knew from experience that the almost non-existent lace shield between his tongue and her nipple did nothing more than add to the sensation, and bit down in warning as she started to rock against him. She may have chosen the position, but this was his game.

“I’m sure you can, my dear.”

He kept his nibbles and licks light and teasing in direct contrast to the hand kneading her buttock with strong fingers and the occasional hint of manicured fingernail. Her own hands were stubbornly locked to her sides to prevent her touching him until she surrendered and he granted her permission. She really was very well trained, but she wouldn’t last long. Maybe through the stimulation of her other breast, which must be positively tingling in anticipation now, but unlikely that she would be capable of restraining her Submissive attributes for that extended period.

Would he use the crop or the paddle? Nipple rings? No, he felt like occupying himself with her lush breasts, filling his mouth as much as possible as he drove into her and made her scream and shudder around him. Couldn’t have her too sensitive if he planned to do that. Well, maybe just a little... and there were new ones sitting in his locked desk drawer they hadn’t played with yet.

He yanked her hips forward, moving her centre of gravity towards him and forcing her hands to the desk behind her to stay balanced as he kept her upper body in place. It was rather unsettling, somehow wrong, having she pressed up against his half hard groin, but he ignored the sensation in favour of switching to her neglected breast and dragging nails down her back. Kitten scratches, she knew his claws, and the barely there reminder of what was to come was more effective than any firmer touch at this stage of the game. She let out a soft mewl and her elbows trembled, but she stubbornly kept her ground.

Mycroft smiled predatorily into her chest. He did love a challenge.

He drew back and gently blew across her soaking bra. With a gasp she broke and his mouth was captured in a burning kiss. No, no, no. Yes, yes, yes. He forced himself to keep going and sucked on her lower lip in desperation. Yes, this was right, this was perfect. She’d switch to Submissive now and he’d pull her to bits and enjoy the process too.

“Mycroft.”

He abandoned her mouth and worried at her neck, just enough to leave a mark which would fade by morning. Definitely the crop. The paddle was just not enough for tonight, didn’t have the sharp edge he craved. Such a pity he’d have to keep it light, but he did need her at work tomorrow. Maybe he’d make her ride him for a few hours instead. Yes, while the little vibrating clamp stimulated her clitoris. That would be perfect.

“Mycroft.”

His teeth dragged over the spot on her neck before moving towards her ear. Her voice was so amazing when she orgasmed, a low throaty moan full of breathy hitches as each wave washed over her. She sounded almost as good as –

No.

“Mycroft. **Stop**.”

It wasn’t so much the dominance that stopped him dead in his tracks as the fact that she _was_ still Dominant. Normally the kiss was her surrender, her signal and consent. Why...?

She tilted his chin up to look down into his eyes. The Dominant in him snarled at the fact this gave her the high ground, made every move an automatic confrontation because she hadn’t Switched and it was a Dominant above him, not a Submissive, but Mycroft ignored his baser instincts.

Whatever she saw, she sighed and kissed his forehead. “You need to stop hiding behind me.” There was a tiny note of regret in her voice.

Mycroft said nothing, knowing she would continue. He refused to fuss with his shirt sleeves, or his askew waistcoat, as his mind raced down multiple avenues attempting to arrive at an explanation which made sense.

She took pity on him. “I’m not who you want to be sitting here with you like this, am I?”

“Yes you are,” He growled playfully and pulled her down for another kiss.

Her mouth was generous and soft, too soft. He snarled into the kiss and dragged his teeth over her lips before thrusting his tongue back to dance with hers. Wrong, wrong, wrong, Right!

With a grunt of despair he tried to pull her back when she eventually disengaged their mouths.

“It won’t work” She mumbled into his mouth. “You can kiss me forever, it won’t make me him.”

Mycroft froze and pulled back. She watched him, a hand gently disentangling his from her blouse.

“I don’t know what you mean.” He whispered, suddenly very hoarse.

Surely... he hadn’t told her anything.

“Yes, you do.” Her tone was firm, leaving no room for argument. Mycroft said nothing. “I saw the CCTV footage, Mycroft. You should have mentioned you’d gone into Heat. I would have rescheduled your overseas commitments and booked a Doctor’s appointment.” Ever his PA. “Have you had an STD test?”

“It was nothing.” Mycroft crossed his arms and flicked his head dismissively. Nothing. Glorious days of nothing.

“Nothing that took four days. Have you had a health check? I sincerely doubt you were using condoms.”

“The good DI is hardly the kind to sleep around and pick up something.” She gave him an incredulous look. “Yes.”

He was on the receiving end of a disbelieving look instead. Legitimate, he supposed, as she normally scheduled all these things for him.

“I am perfectly capable of running my own tests, my dear, even if I normally choose not to.” He wasn’t sure quite why he’d been so reluctant to go to his specialist, one of the handful of people who knew his true gender. “It was nothing, anyway.”

“No, it wasn’t, and you need to stop hiding behind me and admit it.”

“I’m hardly holding onto your apron strings and cowering, my dear.” Mycroft didn’t have to try to put a sneer in his voice.

The idea was preposterous. He was a Holmes and a Dominant and regularly ran the Government, when he had the time. He would never hide behind a Switch in his employ.

She merely raised an eyebrow, implacable as ever, as she finished buttoning her blouse. Somehow Mycroft suspected he may have had the last glimpse he’d ever get of that lingerie set. “So you didn’t imply to Detective Inspector Lestrade that you and I were in a relationship.”

Mycroft mimicked her posture. “I said nothing of the sort, my dear.”

She sighed and slid gracefully off his lap. “No, you merely implied it.”

Mycroft knew better than to outright contradict her. She was _his_ PA for a reason. It was her _job_ to uncover small pieces of information not normally and easily accessible. The restaurant security would have presented no more a challenge than lip reading the camera footage.

“At _most_ I implied we’d had intercourse, which we have. Frequently, almost regularly, even.”

In the dim light her look was even more inscrutable than usual as she strode out of the room, his efficient PA again, albeit with a rumpled skirt and crinkled shirt.

“That is not what you implied at all, and you are aware of it, Sir.” The sound of her rummaging through her desk reached him. “You need to face this, Sir, before it compromises your ability to function.”

“We didn’t Bond.” Mycroft detested how defensive he sounded. It was pathetic. “There is nothing to deal with, as I have said. We didn’t Bond, I am on my suppressants,” he didn’t mention that he hadn’t been able to keep them down because of the stomach issues, “and Gregory Lestrade and I have reached an understanding about the status of our relationship.”

She favoured him with a sympathetic smile as she glided back through the room. “You don’t have to Bond to care more than you should, Sir. No!” She held up her palm. “Don’t deny it. You’ve denied it for years. I won’t let you hide behind me anymore when it comes to relationships, and,” She took a deep breath and placed a slim box on his desk, “take that when you get home. I think we both already know the answer. I’ll reschedule everything for tomorrow, there isn’t that much, so you can take the time to sort this. You need to, Sir.”

With that she turned and walked out of the office without giving him time to reply, barely pausing to say good night at the door.

Mycroft threw his weight hard against the back of the chair. This was ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous. He was not... and he did not... and there was no way... No. Caring was not an advantage. Love even less so.

He was not in love with Gregory Lestrade.

He did not need Gregory Lestrade.

He most certainly did not need _that_.

With an impatient huff he strode to the small antique side table next to the fireplace. The cut crystal decanter threw little rainbows along its edges, the dark brandy inside swirling like a liquid gemstone.

This was why Mycroft loved the dim world of firelight. Everything became more in the wavering ambience – colours became richer, shadows became darker, and the whole world existed on the knife’s edge of a trembling, flickering glow.

He wasn’t in the mood to appreciate it. He usually savoured the feel of the heavy crystal stopper, perfectly shaped the capture the light and refract it between icy planes until the crystal glowed, but tonight he ripped it off the decanter and poured a very stiff drink without sparing a single thought beyond its removal. It was just not fair! His body, his PA... what was going to betray him next? His mind? His _heart?_ He sneered at the thought and tilted his head back to drink.

The brandy flowed delicately over his tongue and he took the time to roll the small sip around his mouth before swallowing. Excellent. As well it should be, being older than him. Mycroft lifted the glass for another sip and paused, the little box glaring accusingly at him from the desk. He turned his head away and took the sip, watching the flames as they danced and writhed over the logs. It didn’t taste anywhere near as good this time.

With a snarl Mycroft threw the remains of his drink into the fireplace. The fire snapped and crackled as the alcohol briefly made the flames flare, before settling down into their usual undulating movements. It was only through the greatest of efforts that the 150 year old crystal tumbler didn’t join its contents in the grate.

Instead Mycroft slammed it down on the table and stalked back to his desk leaving the brandy uncapped. Once there, he defiantly pushed the little box into the bin and seated himself delicately in his chair.

Arum was over exaggerating the situation. He was fine, there was nothing wrong with him, he was hiding from nothing, and everything had been on track to go back to normal operating efficiency, until she threw this spanner in the works. No matter, a few months and he had no doubt she’d see how wrong she’d been when there was no change and come to him. It wasn’t like he needed the sex, it was merely a pleasant distraction. Nor did he need her. There was no reason she was required in the least. It made it more interesting, but her presence was not necessary.

In fact, why not? He’d roused himself for a session, so why shouldn’t he? It wasn’t like anyone would interrupt him should he choose to indulge, and if she did find any traces, well, it just reinforced the message.

He didn’t need anyone. People were a means to an end. Even if that end was a sentimental one they were still means to an end, and if you eschewed the end, you no longer required the means. He’d let himself grow lax, but here was a wakeup call, a warning revealing to him how far he’d let his guard slip. No more.

Mycroft repeated this to himself as he lazily let his hand wonder down his vest. He didn’t require anyone to fulfil his body’s needs.

Sure fingers opened the buttons one at a time with quick, efficient flicks.

He most certainly did not require anyone to fulfil his heart’s needs.

His left hand rested on the arm of his chair as he resisted the urge to move more quickly up and bring the other limb into play.

He had set aside the selfish requirements of his heart when he decided to be the Dominant he was meant to be to his family and the world.

Reaching the final clasp he drew a lone finger up the line of shirt buttons revealed underneath and gently traced around each nipple, avoiding the more sensitive nub to focus on the areole.

He had his brother to care about him and to care about in return.

His nipples had been feeling more sensitive lately and he felt a small tremor as his finger wondered a little too close and bumped into the rapidly hardening flesh.

He had no need of further intimate relationships when he already had such an important person in his life.

Unable to resist the impulse he tugged and bit his lip to refrain from letting out a small moan at the feeling.

He had chosen this, abrogated his personal life for his professional one.

Before he realised he’d moved, his left hand had started to cup his swelling groin through the fabric of his trousers.

He had embarked on a personal mission to be the best, to offset the disappointment he could so easily have been to his family.

His hand tugged his shirt out of the waistband of his trousers and stumbled slightly through undoing his belt as his right hand began to caress his right nipple, the left now well and truly sensitised.

He had managed, he was sure, to make them proud and perform his duties to his family and to the government.

The sound of his fly being unzipped was extraordinarily loud in the otherwise silent room.

He had made himself everything that could be asked of him, resurrecting the flagging Holmes reputation in service and striving to reach pinnacles not dreamed of by his predecessors.

Without removing his trousers his hands pushed his pants down just enough to free his leaking erection.

He had protected his brother, despite all Sherlock’s best efforts to the contrary, and he had protected his country, despite all Britain’s best efforts to the contrary.

The slightest stroke up and down and already a scintillating pleasure was dancing through his lower regions. He hadn’t felt this charged since Gregory had been kneeling – no.

Mycroft adjusted his position to allow his knees to fall open wider and give himself easier access. He let his head fall back, eyes closed, as he started a rhythmic stroke, occasionally curling over the head of his cock, mostly teasing, not quite completing the movement. Playing, and playful.

His hand brushed against the material of his shirt, the rustle of silk joining his breathless sighs. It was almost enough to imagine there was someone with him, that the hand caressing him was not his own. Oh, it was so easy to see in his mind’s eye, so tempting to imagine the occasional sounds as the fire popped and sighed came from human lips and the caress of his clothing instigated by human hands.

Why not? Fantasy always heightened the overall satisfaction with the experience.

Letting his right hand fall from his chest, Mycroft pushed his trousers and pants down to his knees carefully making sure to never miss a stroke with his left. Gravity helped them glide down his legs once they made it passed the impediment, but Mycroft let himself imagine they were aided by human hands.

Anthea, he had so enjoyed her as Anthea, slowly began to draw a single deep red, manicured finger over his testicles, the two sacks tingling at the sharp pressure of her nail as it wound its route down and along the sensitive inner skin of his thighs. Her steel grey blouse was decorously buttoned, but the angle provided Mycroft with a full visual of the black bra hidden beneath, breasts barely contained by the thin lace sheathe. The contrast between her hair and clothes, so prim and proper, and her bra and her smile was all the more titillating for its strength.

Her hand wrapped around his cock and in his mind Mycroft let his fall to the sides of the chair. He’d give her the illusion of control for the meantime. It would be interesting to see how she’d take the opportunity, and he had things planned for when he deemed she had played enough.

Slowly Anthea’s fingers wondered, brushing tantalisingly close to the sensitive glans as her grip on the shaft loosened. Oh she was feeling playful, the teasing strokes even more enticing when they were barely felt. Releasing him completely she drew her nails up the shaft like a claw before running a single very firm finger across the head. Mycroft didn’t try to stop his hips bucking into the contact. Let her read his body and use the knowledge to please him.

Her other hand was tracing little circles on his thigh, drawing ever closer and closer to his testicles only to brush past with the merest puff of air to the other leg. Back and forth, back and forth until Mycroft was aware of the two sacks as he hadn’t been before. He could feel their weight, hanging low and heavy, growing heavier by the second with the slightest of throbs as the blood thundered through his body. Anthea’s hand passed teasingly back again and his balls had obviously developed muscles as they endeavoured to move into the contact. A throaty chuckle greeted the effort and the slightest non-existent brush of lips sent sparks ricocheting over the flesh.

Oh she was glorious. His cock was achingly hard as her lithe fingers left it moving back up to his nipples to pinch and drag against his shirt. He felt a whimper, but locked it deep inside. He would not give her more satisfaction than his body was forced to provide. He was in control, he controlled what she knew.

Her fingers scratched across his perineum and he let out an involuntary gasp. With a low chuckle she began to stroke and interrogate the spot, drawing breathless hitch after reluctant breathless hitch from his bitten lips. Her hand left his chest and in a swift and deadly motion gave him a single hard stroke.

Mycroft’s hands convulsed on the arms of the chair, hips bucking up into her fist. He tasted iron and copper. With a gasp he drew vital air into his lungs, chasing the hazy grey of oxygen deprivation from the edges of his vision.

A single broad finger traced across the marred flesh, calluses rubbing the abused expanse before dipping just inside to meet the tip of Mycroft’s tongue. He tasted his own blood and sensuously twined his tongue around the digit. Two could play at this game. He was rewarded with a deep rumble and a millisecond longer with the finger before it dragged out of his mouth, imperfect nails catching on the stinging wound and making him hiss.

He curbed the impulse to lean forward and capture the finger, still resting on the edge of his lip, again. To draw it back where he could play and make its owner suffer the same, burning need he had. Another finger, the middle finger with the ring finger trailing behind, ran up his chin, index finger never releasing the pressure on his lip. The three hovered there on the brink, refusing to move that little bit nearer within range of his ministrations. They held there, paused on the precipice of eternity, until as one they both moved.

The pleasure of those fingers, of laving them, of dragging his teeth across their lengths, of soothing calluses and scars with his tongue, was almost sufficient for Mycroft to lose track of the hand still stroking his penis until with a dextrous twist and swirling stroke he was forced to gasp and release the fingers as sensation flooded through his body.

Burning he was burning. The fire had migrated from the ornate grate to under his skin, guided by strong hands and a husky voice, which even now made its satisfaction known with the slightest of approving sounds, knowing full well that Mycroft would hear and understand the fulfilment that flavoured every atonal note as his Submissive pleasured him, their own gratification taken from his.

His attention was drawn back to his body as fingers gently circled his opening before one slowly and achingly penetrated him. Mycroft deliberately relaxed his body, accepting the intrusion though it was never an area she had experimented in before. His body welcomed the penetration wholeheartedly and he felt her almost lose the stroke as he writhed under her clever finger. A second finger joined the first, determinedly massaging him open with the most minimal amount of discomfort possible. They left him feeling stretched to an extent he hadn’t thought possible and he instinctively tightened.

“Just relax.” He felt the words against his thigh, the sound lost into the skin leaving him with impressions and no further clues. Bossy little Submissive. Unusual, but then he rarely gave her this level of autonomy.

His thoughts were derailed as she pressed against the spot she had been so dedicatedly ignoring. He could feel the fireworks exploding behind his eyes as his body jerked which only forced his cock more firmly into her caress.

Oh he was close, so close. As if sensing his thoughts the fingers began moving faster and faster. No more stretching or massaging, they were now stroking deep into his insides pressing lightly against the small bundle of nerves on every pass. The timing of the other tortuous hand was so perfect that every instance he moved with the questing fingers he was forced deeper into her grip intensifying the experience.

The feel of the hands had changed, giving him the impression his partner was no longer kneeling decorously before him, but leaning over him, foreheads almost touching, breath running hot across Mycroft’s lips, mingling with his own. Would he be kissed as he came, his moan swallowed by those beautifully shaped bows and provocative tongue? Suddenly he wanted very much to find out. He leant up for the kiss.

“Come for me, My.”

At the sound of Gregory’s infantile nickname for him Mycroft’s eyes flew open, dispelling the fantasy even as he came with a shudder over his shirttails in long glistening strands, sparks flashing through his vision.

He sat there, unable to even reach for his handkerchief to clean himself up as his sensitised body shuddered through the last of one of the most intense orgasms he’d experienced, certainly the most explosive by his own hand. The fire flickered and danced, but he didn’t see it or the glinting swirl of the brandy or the echoing grace of ages past trapped in the bookshelves and ceiling. He saw nothing, the sense of sight completely lost to him as his mind repeated his own evocative fantasy back to him, final line by final line.

“Come for me, My.” “Come for me, My.” “Come for me, My.”

Over and over again, the words pounded around his mind. When had the exercise got away from him? Gregory’s voice, Gregory’s name, Gregory’s hands, Gregory’s acts.

All his.

Eventually Mycroft Holmes stirred and cleaned himself up. He methodically tucked his shirt back into his trousers, paid special attention to the buttons on his vest, smoothed non-existent wrinkles from the trouser leg.

Then he sat in the dim office until the fire died to embers, its flickering light extinguished as it burned out leaving him surrounded by darkness.

Then he sat there some more, stubbornly ignoring his own thoughts, listening to the silence.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Evening all. I've been procrastinating a bit with my study, and so present you with a choice. Would you like to have two chapters on Sunday, two next Wednesday, or two the Sunday after that? Entirely up to you guys, though I warn you ahead of time, depending how you choose to split it you may want to hurt me given the ends of the chapters... there may be a cliff hanger or two in there. Entirely up to you all though. Lucky dip and let me know what you want. 
> 
> Not really any warnings for the chapter, but a heads up for drunken ramblings of a not really PC nature. Certainly not the opinions of the characters, let alone the author, but after that much scotch.... Well, even Greg Lestrade says some pretty dumb stuff.

It was loud in here, and he didn’t like the lights. And the music! Okay the band was covering good songs, and he couldn’t help joining in for Summer of ’69, but was there any reason for it to be so loud? The speakers sounded awful cranked up so high, and the vocals could barely be heard over the cacophony produced by the other musicians. The bar was sticky, the air overheated, and it was way too crowded.

Greg missed his local, but it wasn’t for tonight.

Another drink was delivered at his silent request, Scotch on the rocks, double of course. He was on three already.

Glasses that was, not shots.

The dark gold liquid flowed smoothly down his throat. He’d lost the burning sensation after the second drink, which was not all that long ago to be honest. He wasn’t _quite_ shooting them, but he couldn’t claim to be savouring them either. As if he was going to spend the money on anything worth savouring! Certainly the ice never had time to melt and pollute his precious alcohol.

He’d definitely been wrong, Greg decided as he ordered his fourth drink from the other bartender, who hadn’t served him yet and so wasn’t keeping count. Alcohol was definitely a better coping mechanism than work. Much better. Work only distracted him; this dulled the pain and if he just kept drinking long enough maybe it would go away entirely. He knew it would come back, accompanied by an epic hangover he had no doubt, but for tonight, and maybe tomorrow night, it would be gone.

So what if John found out? John was his friend, not his mother. What was the other Alpha going to do anyway? Yell at him? Be silently disapproving? Besides, it was Friday night and this was what people who weren’t pulling their sixtieth hour of work for the week did on Friday night for fun.

No, this was a much better plan than working late again. It’s not like the hours he’d been doing were appreciated. He should charge the bastards for just one week of his actual time – that’d send them scurrying and he could use the money. It was fucking ridiculous. He had an excellent conviction rate without Sherlock. With the detective’s help his closure rate was the best in the country. He knew that for a fact. He’d been told so by M- _someone_ who’d know. He cleared more cold cases than any other DI, he sat on half a dozen NSY committees as a volunteer, and his fucking paperwork was up to fucking date and letter perfect so those bloody sods could just get screwed all the way to Hell.

No, drinking was clearly the better option. To oblivion even, and when he eventually rolled out of bed he’d start with a Bloody Mary and go from there, even if it was before noon, which it wasn’t going to be. No, the plan, such as it was, was not to sober up all weekend. Fix every hangover with the hair of the dog, and have two days.... two glorious pain free days, and probably a sick day on Monday. Arrogant sods at the office didn’t deserve to have him come in. He certainly wouldn’t be staying late! Nope, those days were fucking gone. Out the door at five past and anyone who complained could just suck his –

“Good Evening Lestrade.”

There were few sights more incomprehensible than that of Sherlock Holmes in a loud, dingy pub, especially as he looked just the same as always. Greg had no doubt that with the smallest modicum of effort Sherlock could have been anyone in this establishment, and no one would have been the wiser, but it was equally true that this _was_ Sherlock Holmes, who was arrogant enough to out ego an Alpha, and there was no way he’d dress up, or down as the case may be, just to not look out of place in a pub.

So there he was. His hair was artfully tousled in a deliberately natural way which suggested hours of work in front of a mirror though for Sherlock sodding Holmes it _was_ entirely natural, the bastard. Without turning his head Greg could already see three women and a long-haired Beta staring at Sherlock’s hair in undisguised longing and jealousy... or maybe they were staring at his arse so exquisitely displayed in the sharply tailored suits.

Sherlock had removed his great coat and was carrying it over one arm, the other arm crocked at the elbow to comfortably rest his hand in his pocket. By design or fluke the detective was wearing what Greg had mentally dubbed ‘the purple shirt of sex’ that set off his hair and skin to perfection without making him appear wane and ghostlike, much to the delight and approval of more than a few patrons of the bar who kept craning in an effort to catch a glimpse of Sherlock’s wrists, conveniently hidden by coat and jacket pocket. As always the blue scarf was wrapped around Sherlock’s neck and if the colours happened to clash just a little, it wasn’t bothering any of his admirers. All in all, Sherlock, from artfully curly hair to handmade shoes, just did not fit in.

Letting out a low growl that scared off three of the braver souls heading towards Sherlock, Greg swung back to the bar and ordered two scotches. The drinks arrived more promptly than any Greg had been served so far that night. He pushed one in Sherlock’s general direction and downed his. Sherlock sauntered the last few steps and lifted the offered glass to his lips. A single small sip later the glass was back on the bar, and expression of incredulous disgust on his face.

Naturally _Sherlock_ was served before he’d even had the chance to raise a finger. Greg huffed and stole the abandoned glass while Sherlock proceeded to deduce that the bartender (Beta Dom, so far not good or bad as far as service went) was part of an underground gambling ring, recently reclaimed his bracelet from his Sub, was studying Maths at university and liked tuna, and ended with a demand for something drinkable. The Dom, who had originally looked a little bit star struck, slammed the drink down before the end of Sherlock’s spiel and stormed off without waiting for Sherlock to pay, ostensibly to serve another customer, but most likely just to get away. Greg doubted he’d be coming back and resigned himself to ordering lest Sherlock chase away _all_ the bartenders.

It was always this way with Sherlock. He’d walk onto a crime scene to awe and lust (from the witnesses, not Greg’s team who had been insulted too many times, though occasionally the newer members threw him longing glances until they’d worked a few Sherlock crime scenes) and within seconds of opening his mouth managed to provoke the most even tempered of people into a blood rage. Sometimes Greg wondered why John let Sherlock out on his own as sooner or later, probably sooner, someone would try to kill him over his total and arrogant lack of manners or sense, but then even John, who loved Sherlock very very much, probably needed a break from him every now and then.

“Didn’t think you’d actually come.”

Evidently this drink met with Sherlock’s approval, or at least less disgust than the previous, as he kept it in his hand after the first testing sip.

“It’s not every day the text from my favourite detective inspector is a drunk meshing of keys rather than crime details.”

It was totally unfair how Sherlock’s deep voice resonated despite the noise, carrying his drawl to everyone around. A passing patron shivered and turned, obviously about to ask Sherlock out on the basis of his voice alone, but with Sherlock’s right hand holding the drink his bracelet was clearly visible so the threatened interaction was avoided. The play of expressions over the Sub’s face (disbelief, regret, _possibly_ , no) was probably going to be repeated all night. Greg hoped they didn’t run into someone brassy enough to try for Sherlock anyway, despite wearing another Dom’s claim, else he’d be forced to defend Sherlock’s honour (or be hurt by John and ... John) and he wasn’t in the mood for a brawl.

Oh, who was he kidding? Sherlock could take care of himself and Greg was longing to punch someone. In absence of the pricks from work, a complete stranger in a bar would do.

“I’m your only-” Greg began, instinctive childhood reply to his Sire’s declaration of ‘favourite son’ on his lips, but stopped as alcohol inhibited brain caught up to mouth. Somehow ‘I’m your only DI’ made him feel too much like a pet. He didn’t like the idea of being Sherlock Holmes’s pet.

Unable to work out what to say, Greg took another gulp of Sherlock’s abandoned drink. He expected a comment, the raised eyebrow certainly said a lot, but Sherlock merely took a second small sip from his own glass.

Fine, if Sherlock wasn’t going to say anything then he could bloody well drink instead. Greg tipped the rest of the alcohol in his glass back as an example and snarled slightly as Sherlock failed to follow suit.

“Drink!” He growled, then flagged down the bartender for another two.

Sherlock merely sighed and nodded at the bartender over Greg’s head as if he were Greg’s _keeper_. As if he couldn’t _see_ , Greg fumed. He was drunk, not blind, though he’d hopefully soon be blind drunk.

The requested drinks were placed on the bar and Sherlock fished out his wallet to pay.

“They have my credit card.” Greg snapped, more than a little insulted. He was an Alpha, he’d pay for the Omega’s drinks. He’d had enough of being _treated_ by Omega Holmeses.

“I believe it is customary that when out drinking there should be an alternation of various rounds that are ‘my shout’.” Sherlock wrinkled his nose and pronounced the phrase the way most people reserved for foreign words.

This was obviously part of John’s socialisation program for Sherlock, Greg decided hazily, and it would be unbearably rude of him to interfere in his fellow Alpha’s training plan – especially when he had so much to gain by Sherlock’s progress. Fine, he’d let Sherlock pay, but he’d get the next one.

With a nod of his head Greg looked back up at Sherlock, who was still standing not sitting like a normal person, and suddenly wondered how much of that he’d said out loud. The slightly icy expression on Sherlock’s face certainly _suggested_ he’d unintentionally verbalised his thoughts, but this was Sherlock and he didn’t need to say anything for Sherlock to _know_.

An exasperated sigh escaped the noirette’s lips. “How many have you had exactly?”

“Can’t you tell?” Greg leant forward into Sherlock’s personal space, grinning like a loon. The great Sherlock Holmes didn’t know!

A twitch developed around Sherlock’s eye. “I can narrow it down to a substantial amount, but the exact number relies on too many unknown variables for me to-”

“Tetchy, tetchy.” Greg admonished, waggling his finger and accidently bumping Sherlock’s chest. He paused and thought. “I’m not sure.”

He had been sure up until the last one, or maybe two, but he was starting to feel the delayed effects of his rapid consumption and things were becoming a little uncertain in the particulars.

“And they were still serving you?” Sherlock muttered under his breath as he collected the three glasses into his hand. “Are you still able to walk?”

“Of course!” Greg was affronted. He wasn’t that drunk. Yet.

“Time to prove it.” Sherlock took a step away from the bar and twisted to face Greg, waiting for him to follow.

Greg lifted his chin and defiantly slipped off his bar stool, which he instantly grabbed for support as the world spun and discoloured. Head rush! He tentatively took a step, then another.

The floor swayed with his shaky movements and only extreme will power kept him from windmilling his arms for balance. He was well, but distantly, aware that the floor was still, even if no one had informed the floor that it was, and he was not ready to be kicked out for drunkenness, which he had no doubt he would be if he proved he couldn’t, in fact, walk.

So he took another cautious step, kept his arms locked to his sides, and bridged the cavernous gap between him and Sherlock. Greg wasn’t quite sure what the look on Sherlock’s face was, interpretations of the minute tells that made up Holmesian facial expressions was apparently not a skill that survived three, no, four... maybe five, six max, double scotches in quick succession.

Sherlock didn’t say anything, not that Greg could hear anyway as the blood rushed through his ears with the music, and led the way out the back to a tiny outdoor seating area. Greg didn’t hold with these ‘beer gardens’, obviously a trashy foreign invention which had no place in traditional establishments, but then this wasn’t his local, wasn’t traditional, and thank Christ at least this meant he could have a smoke.

He had to admit his descent to a seated position on the wooden bench was more a collapse than a planned manoeuvre, but he was too busy patting down his pockets for the newly purchased packet of cigarettes to care. Ah, there it was. The plastic wrap was a matter of seconds, muscle memory never faded, and he was soon inhaling the sweet tobacco-y bliss. He inhaled again and spluttered, it had been a long time, and then rearranged on the bench so his back was leaning against the wall, legs splayed out along the wooden seats. He looked up to see Sherlock a millimetre away breathing in the smoke being emitted by the burning tobacco and paper roll in his hand.

“Want one?” He offered, packet extended.

Sherlock stole the cigarette from between Greg’s fingers and brought it to his own lips, where he paused with the filter barely touching his flesh. Greg gave his cigarette up for lost and moved to tap another from the pack. Without warning the carton was yanked from his grip and Sherlock stormed over to the rubbish bin where he proceeded to break every cigarette in turn before letting them fall into the waste, sending Greg evil glares and grumbling angrily as he did. Greg stared at his hand, Sherlock, and back to his hand uncomprehendingly. It had just occurred to his belaboured brain that he needed to stop Sherlock before he destroyed all the smokes when the Sub plonked angrily down on his bench across the table from Greg.

Right, no smoking then. Well, Sherlock couldn’t stop him drinking.

Greg slid one of the glasses carefully over the table slats towards him and then in scrupulous fairness slid the other two to Sherlock.

Sherlock had put his jacket back on, Greg realised as he watched the younger Sub pull his gloves on as well. Of course he had, it was bloody freezing out here, which was why other than a couple of diehard smokers huddled as close to the door as legally possible (hit up for cigarette? Too far from drink: No) there was no one else out here. Good thing too. Sherlock’s scarf had looked stupid around his neck without the coat.

Oh, of course. Greg relaxed back with a sigh and cradled his glass. The scarf. That’s why Sherlock had directed them outside, so he could continue to wear his scarf without arousing suspicions. This way even though people might wonder, especially given more than a few saw Sherlock’s bracelet and would know him for Sub, no one would _know_ that he was an Omega.

It wasn’t so much that Sherlock was hiding his gender status as preventing an uncomfortable evening that was all. Pubs were, as Greg was well aware, full of less than intelligent individuals who tended towards... oh who was he kidding? In general, pubs like this one, chosen for its attitude towards drinking copious amounts of alcohol even after a patron should have been legally cut off, were full of drunk bigots and genderists so it was good Sherlock was for once choosing to be discrete.

The Omega was exorbitantly proud of his collar, knowing full well how striking the black leather was around his neck. More, Greg believed Sherlock was fiercely proud that he _had_ a collar; that _someone_ out there loved and cherished him enough to place it around his neck and formally swear to the world to look after him forever (or nowadays, until divorce do us part). Even when cases demanded Sherlock go incognito he wore his collar, though he had several versions which lacked the silver (apparently Sherlock didn’t like gold) Omega symbol clasped to the front for times it was...inconvenient, but even when it would be better to act as a Dom, or as a lone Unbound Sub, Sherlock refused to remove the thin leather strip. He would relinquish his bracelet to John, and only John, he would wear scarves or turtleneck tops or even, once, loosen the collar so it slid far enough down his neck to be covered up by a buttoned up shirt and tie, but he never, ever removed it.

Greg envied Sherlock his collar so much. He was glad Sherlock kept his scarf on. That way he didn’t have everything he could never have staring him provocatively in the face.

Had he said that out loud?

Oh well. He took another mouthful of his drink, reluctant to gulp it down now a further supply was no longer in easy reach. It wasn’t fair. Sherlock had everything and all he had was a crappy job and a huge secret that destroyed his life and why was Sherlock there anyway?

“Because you texted me and I was bored. John was about to throw me out for a walk anyway. Apparently I was being annoying.”

Had he said that out loud as well? Obviously. Why had he texted Sherlock? Sherlock at a pub. That was the most ridiuclus...ridicolous... stupid idea he’d ever heard. Oh right, because there was no one else because his team were idiots, his colleagues were backstabbing sods, his best friend wasn’t talking to him, John would take his salvation away and try to make him _talk_... and Sherlock _knew_. Sherlock would understand.

No one else would understand. He only had Sherlock.

How sad was that?

Greg frowned. He assumed Sherlock knew. Sherlock certainly knew about _him_ , but did Sherlock know that Greg was a –

“Yes, of course. You hide it well, but it was rather obvious after that. I would have realised more quickly if I’d paid attention, but I had... assumed.”

Greg took a small sip, only a _small_ one, and felt the liquid crash against his teeth. Like waves against a cliff, he thought dreamily.

Sherlock knew. Sherlock _knew_. He could talk to Sherlock about... _him_.

“What’s caused this, Greg?”

Him, hhhiiimmmm, My, My My. Greg swallowed a giggle. My Mycroft. My my Mycroft.

His face fell. Not his Mycroft. Not my My.

“Deduce it.” He spat at Sherlock. Sherlock _Holmes_. Mycroft _Holmes_. Fucking Homeses screwing up his fucking life.

Why couldn’t Mycroft screw him instead of his life?

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably on his bench. Oh, right, out loud again.

“You’re clearly intoxicated, well beyond the amount you would normally imbue, and much earlier in the evening. Ergo, you left work on time, which is early for you. You’re drinking alone, not your usual fashion, and drinking for the alcohol not the social aspect or the taste, as evidenced by the quality, or lack thereof, of your drinks. That explains why you didn’t call John, but the Yarders gather for drinks every Friday near the precinct and when you’re free you usually join them. So you’re not just avoiding a lecture about excessive drinking, you’re avoiding company. Conclusion: something happened at work, something which has shaken your deep sense of loyalty and camaraderie with your peers, and you’ve turned to alcohol to dull the pain.”

“Bravo.” Greg muttered sarcastically into his ice.

“Additionally you called them backstabbing sods.” Sherlock casually raised his own glass to his lips and met Greg’s glare for implacable stare. “So talk, Lestrade.”

“Who says I want to talk? I would have invited _John_ to talk.” Greg sneered, repressed anger bubbling to the forefront.

How dare they! He gave them everything, his life, his existence and they –

“No, you invited me, because you knew you wouldn’t have to. Is that what you want, Lestrade? For me to _deduce_ what happened and tell _you_? Save you the effort of saying it?” Sherlock scoffed, lips twisted into a crude smirk.

Greg slumped down and tipped the last of the scotch down his throat, refusing to say anything. He dropped the glass carelessly on the table with a solid thunk, defiantly not looking over at Sherlock.

“Fine.” The Consulting Detective’s voice was sharp. “You’re pissed off because you feel betrayed by the Yard. Not one person, the institution as clearly shown by your utter disgust at the mention of the name and the lack of any overtime despite knowing a couple of your colleagues are currently struggling with cases. Not that you’ve helped them since their instantaneous dismissal of me eight months ago, but you’re not at the Yard picking up the slack either.

 So the Yard has angered you. How does an organisation anger someone? Processes, procedures and superiors, particularly the last one which for you is an even greater betrayal as Packenham is both useless as a police officer, so how dare he question you regarding cases, and being an openly successful Sub he raises your jealousy and pride. He can do it, why shouldn’t you be able?

So, Packenham. You don’t have any major cases nor are you surrounded by colleagues all griping about the upstart Subs who try to order around Alphas, so a personal attack. Not an attack on the division per se, one that strikes at the heart of your self-image – your abilities as an inspector and dedication to the Yard. How am I doing, Detective Inspector?”

Greg set his jaw against Sherlock’s sarcasm and took a glorious mouthful of oblivion.

“Conclusion,” Sherlock continued on, melodious voice flowing more smoothly over the words than Greg’s drink down his throat. “Packenham called you up on your recent erratic behaviour and told you to fix yourself or you’d be out, despite your record, because the Yard can only keep dedicated officers, not irresponsible unreliable Alphas, and you know everyone at the Yard thinks you’ve unhinged and won’t stand by you, so total betrayal by the most important thing to you and the _only_ thing that has stayed with you through your sad, lonely life.”

_The Yard needs disciplined dedicated employees, Lestrade, not irresponsible hot heads who can’t keep themselves and their swollen Dominant heads clear. Do you hear me?_

Did Sherlock even realise how perfect his words were, how as he spoke them the rich baritone was overlaid by a lighter whinier tone?

_You’re a loose cannon, Lestrade, bringing that_ Omega _in on your cases. Reckless, Unstable the both of you._

“Fuck you.” Greg enjoyed the shape of the words leaving. “Fuck you. There is no fucking way you could have known any of that. I don’t care how good you are... who told you? Who are you fucking talking to?”

“I know you.” Sherlock’s voice was quiet, but firm. “I know what’s important to you, I know your habits, I know,” his voice rose in volume proportionate to Greg’s snarl, “that results and protecting people are more important concepts than politics and glory, which is why you’ve never been promoted. I know-”

Greg seized the lapels of Sherlock’s jacket dragging him nose to nose. “Don’t you dare. Don’t you _fucking_ dare!”

Sherlock wrenched out of Greg’s grip and stood breathing heavily.

“All this shit,” Greg continued, “all this fucking shit I go through I go through for you!”

“Because you need me.” Sherlock sneered, tilting his chin imperiously and tossing his curls defiantly.

“I don’t sodding _need_ you!” Greg bellowed. “I can do my job without you. I chose to have you help me, to solve more, but I don’t fucking need you and now you’re destroying my bloody life!”

Sherlock straightened. Objectively Greg knew the taller figure had gained only a couple of millimetres, but he suddenly seemed much taller. Sherlock loomed over Greg, a ferocious God with freezing burning eyes, appearing every inch the Dom Greg had mistaken him for. He fell back on his bench, not quite cowering, as Sherlock turned every inch of his fake Dominance on Greg and drove him down.

“Gregory Lestrade,” Greg was a deer caught in the headlights of Sherlock’s eyes, “do NOT try and turn this back on me. You _chose_ to have my help because you care about saving lives and justice, and no matter how unpopular that choice, it was NOT what caused this, not this time. _You_ caused this, you and your own actions.” Sherlock shrank a little, dropping the Dom act.

Greg gave a shudder of relief.

“Greg,” Sherlock’s hand paused in front of Greg’s face, clearly unsure of his welcome. “I understand this may be hard to comprehend, but I have recently been forced to accept that it is possible I might have some closer than previously credited acquaintances, and following this admission that there is the distinct possibility that for some unfathomable reason you may be one of them.”

Greg let out a choked laugh. Only Sherlock could make that sound like such an amazing compliment. Sherlock’s gloved finger brushed across his cheek and Greg belatedly realised that Sherlock was brushing away a lone tear.

“Greg, why are you acting like this? This isn’t you.”

These statements were the closest Greg had ever heard Sherlock come to saying he cared. His voice was so un-Sherlock, the Sub who operated on logic and despised emotion sounded so gentle and caring, that Greg couldn’t help letting a sob pass his lips and felt another humiliating tear track down over his nose. The drop suffered the same fate as its predecessor(s?) and was gently wiped away by Sherlock’s leather clad hand.

“Greg?”

A slight breeze blew through the outdoor area stinging damp skin; it was the first time Greg had actually _felt_ the cold since they’d come outside. Maybe Sherlock’s little display had scared some of the alcohol out of him. Couldn’t have that.

“Are you sure you’re not a Switch?” His voice sounded raspy and he happily tipped back the large remainder of the scotch in his glass. He could feel it burn the whole way down his throat before settling in his stomach as a low pool of warmth.

“Very, unfortunately.” Sherlock’s voice was crisp and cool, like the air.

Well who wanted to be a Sub? Even with all the reforms your life still sucked. All the legal changes in the word couldn’t rid you of the gaping hole in your soul, just waiting for your Dom to come and take over your life and tell you want to do.

No, Greg didn’t blame Sherlock for wishing he’d been a Dom. Greg wished he’d been a proper Alpha too.

“I’ve been, uh, acting unpredictably lately.” Greg didn’t look at Sherlock as he spoke, preferring to look through the table slats and study the cold flagstones below.

Sherlock didn’t reply, but Greg was sure he was thinking, ‘Well obviously!’ It was a Sherlock thought.

“For a while now,” He continued, then stopped, unsure how to go on. ”For 2 months 12 days ...” Greg didn’t keep going, didn’t reveal he still knew to the exact hour how long it had been.

Sherlock didn’t say anything, though being a genius he obviously knew the significance just as he’d obviously already known the reason for Greg’s erratic behaviour before Greg had said anything. Greg supposed knowing wasn’t the point. Making Greg say it was the point. Sherlock already _knew_.

“I...” His throat convulsed and Greg had to swallow his word and start over. “I was called in today. I’m on notice. If I don’t clean up my behaviour, I’m out.”

Just like that. Twenty years of exemplary service, of overtime, of crime scenes in rain, hail and snow, of giving everything he had to the job since he couldn’t give it to a lover – all this gone in two months, twelve days and a handful of goddam hours. He should be angry, but anger was gone leaving empty behind.

“I know I need to...to prove that I haven’t cracked, to prove myself,” because apparently he hadn’t done enough of that already, “but I...I just... I can’t... I can’t help it.” He finally raised his eyes to meet Sherlock’s. No pity, thank God. “I don’t know how to... He’s destroyed me, Sherlock.”

There was no need to define who _He_ was.

“It was fine before, you know. I could control it. I was me and I knew who that was and I was an Alpha and it didn’t matter that I was also a Sub because I could _control it_. Now... I don’t know what to do.” Greg was aware that he was babbling, almost begging the younger Sub for answers, but now that he’d started the words wouldn’t stop. “I was able to bury it, I was able to ignore it, but now I _know_ and it’s screwed up my instincts. Everything’s wrong now! I lose grip and the Sub takes over and I almost drop to my knees in the office, and then I wrestle the Alpha back in, but it goes too far and I’m too Alpha and I can’t control what he does either and I’m not _me_. I’m not _me_ anymore and I don’t know how to find me and my balance and I’m falling, I’m constantly falling, but the cliff’s so narrow that I climb up and fall off the other side and I don’t know what to-”

Greg took a swallow of his drink to stop the flow of words. His heart was racing, something he associated now with Mycroft’s presence. He realised his hand was shaking as he put the glass down and stared at it, transfixed, for several seconds. Adrenaline? Alcohol?

Did it matter?

“I just...” He closed his eyes, unable to face the words. “I don’t know what to do.”

It was out there. He couldn’t cope. He was failing, falling to pieces as his life splintered around him.

He took another mouthful. Good old alcohol. Alcohol was his true best friend and would never desert him, not like _Mycroft_.

“Mycroft.” He forced himself to say the name out loud, consciously this time, wrenching uncooperative tongue around oh so familiar syllables.

He took another drink.

“I don’t understand why he’s doing this.” Drink. “I told him, I t-told him that we’d just be friends. I would be fine with that, I would, I would c-cope with that.” Greg took a wracking breath. Apparently Mycroft didn’t have to be present to destroy his control. “I was lying, of course I was lying, but I was trying. God Sherlock, I was trying so hard, so hard for him. I didn’t care about me, I just wanted to try for him so he’d s-stay, so he wouldn’t leave. P-prove to him that I wasn’t some pathetic Alpha hanging around after Heat, that I could live my life and be his friend even if that’s not what I wanted. I, I, God Sherlock, I tried so hard!”

Greg took another sip out of the shaky glass. Only a sip, he’d need the rest as he continued. Couldn’t afford to waste his drink!

“I went out you know,” His voice was much better, more nonchalant, less stutters and teeth chattering breaks, “I went out to bars and pubs and tried to pick up as many Subs as I could and I had offers, oh I had offers! So many offers, and you know what, I couldn’t do it! I couldn’t take a single one of them home, though I tried and told myself I had to. One of them k-kissed me and I,” Greg took a large swallow at the memory of clawing, grasping hands, of desperation in the hallway to the bathrooms of the pub, of the sudden urge to vomit as the Subs lips had latched on to his.

He hadn’t been able to follow through. Less than a few seconds into the kiss he’d broken free and dashed into the men’s toilet where he hovered over the sink waiting for everything he’d eaten and drunk to re-emerge. It didn’t, but Greg couldn’t shake the horrible, oily feeling in his gut or the icy guilt in his chest. Neither of them were deserved. He and Mycroft were _not_ in a relationship. They were nothing, which was clear, very, very clear, but still... Greg couldn’t do it.

He’d never been that good at casual sex to begin with so it didn’t surprise him he was worse when his heart was actively occupied elsewhere.

“I even, I...”

He’d given in after that, conceding that maybe his newly awaken Submissive tendencies needed something more substantial than he’d previously provided for himself. So for the first time ever he’d found himself in one of the anonymous dives he had so frequently raided while in Vice, searching with hungry anxious eyes for a Dom, any Dom. He’d drunk himself silly, flirted up a storm with Betas who looked like Mycroft, with Alphas that didn’t, even with a few women; blonde, brunette, tall, short, no one was off limits.

He’d come out of the club at 3 am feeling dirty, as if, more than betraying Mycroft and their non-existent relationship, he had betrayed himself by going there.

He’d also come out alone.

He couldn’t do it.

“I never when that far before, you know. I considered it, a few times I came close, but I always held back. It wasn’t for me, I wasn’t... That wasn’t me. I didn’t do that. I... But I did! For him, for him I gave up and went and tried, I tried so hard with everyone, just to...

“They would have had me you know. There was this blonde, gorgeous blonde. Big tits, amazing arse, shouldn’t have been there, way too gorgeous, but probably on the game so she was... absolutely fucking fantastic! And she was interested, kept flirting with me, kept buying me drinks. How many prostitutes buy their marks drinks?”’ Greg laughed bitterly into his scotch. “I couldn’t. I.. God I’m pathetic. So pathetic. Can’t even pick up a fling in a bar when they’re trying to pick up me! Because of him, all because of him. Because I fucking love him.

“There, I said it.” He swung his head and defiantly glared at Sherlock. “I love Mycroft Holmes.”

Sherlock kept his gaze. “Are you sure this isn’t just a hangover from Estrus? The two of you were close before so it wouldn’t be surprising if you were... confusing things.”

Greg let his head roll along the wall and fall languidly to the side. “I don’t know how long I’ve been in love with him...but I was before we screwed each other’s brains out for three days.” He took a sip. “That’s why I went over you know. I was so worried that something was wrong, that he’d been h-hurt. I know you remember last time. So I went, because I loved him. Because he was e-everything to me even,” he let out a bark of noise that was probably meant to be laughter, “even though I didn’t k-know that he was an Omega. I thought he was an Alpha. I’d never been in love with an Alpha... fancied them sexually, been drawn to them, but they’d always revolted me too and yet, there he was and I l-l-loved him, and if I l-loved him then I must be gay, right?

“I would have been gay for him. I would have, I would have done anything for him. And I have! I’ve been to his little events, I’ve smiled at his... when he told me...” Greg tried to take a large gulp, alcohol intake restricted by the ice in the glass. He was almost out. That wouldn’t do. “I broke resolutions of a lifetime, I q-questioned my very sexual _identity_ , I went out and tried to sleep with every Dom, Dick, Harry and Jane who crossed my path because _he_ wanted me to and I c-couldn’t and he-he, he just turns around and fucks his secretary like it’s of no consequence and easy and then expects me to s-smile about it while he-” Greg felt the little droplets hit his hand.

Crying, he was crying. He turned sharply to face Sherlock.

“Did you know? Did you know about _her?_ ” The uncomfortable expression on Sherlock’s face was enough of an answer. “Of course you did.” Greg couldn’t muster the effort to bring the alcohol to his mouth. He wondered if he could will it straight into his veins. “How long?”

“How long?” Sherlock’s voice was echoic.

“Don’t play dumb with me, genius. How long has he been fucking her? Screws her in the office I bet, over his desk.”

His head was clearer again. Apparently he could still get angry. Greg wondered if that was a good thing. Surely it would just be easier if he lost the ability to feel all together. It would mean he was almost drunk enough for one thing.

“Greg...”

“How long?” Greg snarled. He knew the answer wouldn’t make him happy, he didn’t need Sherlock to tell him that, just to give him an answer.

Had Mycroft moved on, or had he been a lying bastard their whole friendship?

Sherlock sighed. “Some time. Years.”

Years.

Well, that was that then. Mycroft had never told him, never even mentioned it, despite everything they’d done and shared (and Greg didn’t mean in bed). Course he hadn’t said anything, why would he tell Greg when he could just slowly watch Greg fall head over heels in love with him and laugh behind his hand all the time.

“Greg-”

“Doesn’t matter.” His voice was perhaps sharper than it should have been. “It doesn’t matter.”

He took a deep breath in.

“It actually doesn’t, you know?” His voice trembled. “I know, I knew, that nothing could ever happen between us. It’s just not possible, you know? And, and he doesn’t want it, doesn’t want _me_ , and he’s made that very clear, so it doesn’t matter that I love him. And I knew that, I _know_ that, and I...” He let out a gasping laugh, “I would have stood there next to him and smiled as he _m-married_ her, but he didn’t even fucking _tell_ me about her. In three years he’s never even m-mentioned her that way and I t-thought we were friends and now we’re not and...that hurts, Sherlock, it hurts so much. And, and, Christ, I...I miss him and it _hurts_. I miss keeping a list of s-stupid movies to force him to w-watch because everyone should have s-seen _Star Wars_ ; I miss listening to him t-talk about politics and art and the _s-stock exchange_ ; I miss _texting_ him; I miss...”

Greg had to stop as he couldn’t breathe. His words were colliding with oxygen in his throat to create a hard lump that wouldn’t move, even when he tried to wash it down with alcohol he couldn’t swallow. Anger gone again, he knew he was crying, he could feel himself sobbing and the breeze catching the hot tracks on his cheeks and cooling them instantly.

Sherlock didn’t say anything, didn’t reach over to him, just sat there and gave him space. It was probably because he didn’t know what to do, but Greg appreciated the distance, the chance to pull himself together. So they sat there in silence, as Greg’s sobs slowly quieted and his tears reduced from floods to trickles. They didn’t stop. Greg wondered if they would ever stop. Maybe one day, when he managed to freeze his heart and push Mycroft to the shadows where he belonged.

The shadows of his heart.

“I am the Light and the Shadows, the first and the last, the Alpha and the Omega.” Greg murmured, head lolling on the brick wall as he stared at the corner of the empty garden. It had been a long time since he’d thought of that.

It was grey, all grey. How fitting the surroundings be grey, like his life. Even the trees: stunted little things trapped by pots, branches stretching to the sky, utterly devoid of leaves and all alone. If that wasn’t a goddam metaphor for him then Greg didn’t know what was.

He rolled his head along the wall to face Sherlock. “I’ve never asked, are you religious? I’m Catholic, a bad bad Catholic. Full of too much sin and not enough love, not enough love for Him, for He loved the world so much he gave us his only Son, the Alpha, the Omega and the Switch, the Holy Trinity of ruining my Sundays.” His words were clear again. Greg took a preventative mouthful. “I’ve never understood that ‘three in one’ crap. You can’t have God the Alpha, God the Omega and God the Genderless Switch. That’s three, not one. Bloody nice of him to give up his Omega though, don’t know how he did it. I can’t do it, and he’s not even my Omega. Not my My.”

Sherlock merely sat there, watching him with too seeing eyes. Greg just bet that Sherlock knew everything he’d ever done in Church to keep himself occupied during Mass, every time he’d skipped and lied to his parents at home that of course he was going to Church in London when he’d actually been racing around on a motorbike with other adolescents, thinking they were all such badasses.

“I bet you’re not religious. You’re too logical to be religious. Religion’s not logical, you know that. It’s stupid.”

Was this what it was like being Sherlock? Greg’s heart felt distant, disconnected to him. The emotions no longer overwhelmed and he found, despite drinking more, that it was contradictorily easier to speak. This was good. This was him getting there, setting himself free.

“Some of the greatest scientists of the age are quite adamantly religious.” Sherlock’s tone was his usual condescending arrogance. The normality helped settle something in Greg. Though his mind was drifting further and further from his control, at least his body now felt grounded.

“You don’t look Islamic, and you’re not wearing one of those veil thingamies so you can’t be, cause you’re in public and inciting lust cause you’re an Ommeeggaaa.” So maybe he wasn’t talking so clearly outside his own head. “And you can’t be Jewish cause you eat bacon and don’t wear a stupid little hat and your family is ooollllldddd and _that_ means you must be C of E. I should hate you. I should,” Greg shook his head a bit to clear it. Things were getting more and more fuzzy and distant.

The action tilted him and he suddenly found himself leaning over the table, held up from collapse by Sherlock’s arm against his chest.

“You do realise that when you’re sober you are going to be absolutely horrified you even thought, let alone said these things? I believe they fall under the category of a bit not good.” Definitely amusement.

That wasn’t fair. Sherlock wasn’t meant to be amused, he was meant to be drunk like Greg! Greg was doing all the heavy lifting here. He went to tip back his glass to find it empty. Oh bugger, when had that happened? Very well, if Sherlock wasn’t going to pull his weight Greg could do it for him. He flailed around, until his arm banged into another glass and pulled it over.

Empty.

Confused Greg studied the table. All three glasses were empty… but he swore Sherlock hadn’t been drinking?

He must have missed it.

“I’ll get more!” He lurched to a standing and then forwards a couple of steps. No, forward, not right. Yes, that way.

His body seemed incredibly uncooperative and Greg decided he’d sit down so he could have an argument with it. He was in charge! It was his body and it would do what _he_ wanted.

“I think you’ve had quite enough.”

Greg shook his head into the dark woollen material. “Can still think. Can still _hurt_.”

His brain sloshed around painfully in the sea of liquid he’d imbued. Why wouldn’t it go into his brain and stop him thinking? It wasn’t meant to surround his brain, it was meant to ... to... to stop it.

He kept his eyes closed tightly as he felt the greasy grip of nausea and the world spinning. Why was the world spinning? Oh, right, not enough alcohol.

“No, Greg, that’s not why at all.”

Yes it was, it obviously was, but Sherlock would help him, because Sherlock was his friend. Sherlock would get him more. More, more, more, so he didn’t have to think, didn’t have to feel, because Sherlock was his friend, his only friend, and Sherlock cared and Greg cared about Sherlock, so Sherlock would give him more.

“You are going to regret saying this when you’re sober.”

Well that wasn’t an issue as he wasn’t ever going to get sober. Sober was nowhere in the plan for the future.

“Come on, Greg, shoes off.”

Greg frowned into the soft white fluffiness. Why would he take off his shoes in public?

“We’re not in public, Greg. We’re home. Turn over so I can get your shoes off.”

Home? Why were they home? Greg was still conscious!

“Barely.”

If he frowned Greg could sort of remember being supported by Sherlock, of crying into his shoulder as they sat pressed together – “That would be in the cab, yes” – and then the fluffy white, that was his pillow!

“Brilliant deduction, Greg.”

Why had he agreed to come home? He wasn’t done yet. Oh yes, because he had more alcohol here and it was free. Free, free, free, and he could go and upend each bottle and pour it down his throat until oblivion.

“And the hospital for a stomach pump, which is not a pleasant experience I assure you.”

No, no stomach pump. Just let him lie there and marinade.

“Do you need a bucket?”

Why would he need a bucket?

“For vomiting into.”

Why would he vomit? That was just ridding himself of good alcohol. Alcohol.

In an attempt at nimbleness Greg lurched off the pillow and headed for his bedroom door. Unfortunately, in his state that meant he lurched off the bed, stumbled around a bit, and headed in the complete opposite direction to the door before crashing into Sherlock prevented him going further.

Greg sagged against him, unashamedly sniffling. “Why, Shherlck? Why?”

There was movement under his cheek. Was Sherlock purring? Greg felt himself being gently transferred to the other side of Sherlock’s chest so the younger Sub could reach into his jacket pocket and pull out his mobile.

“Apparently I’m all the rage tonight.” The Blackberry was returned to the pocket without a reply.

“I wish Mycroft texshted me still.”

“I know, Greg.”

Greg felt himself being lowered and was vaguely aware of the covers being pulled up and tucked in around him.

“I didn’t want him to go. I would have done anything.”

“I know.”

“I love him.”

“I know.”

“My My.” Greg let out a small sob and bit his lip. It hurt. “Not my My.”

“Go to sleep Greg.”

Without asking permission Greg’s eyelids shut and he passed out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't forget to let me know when you want your extra chapter. xx


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Evening All! So the general consensus seems to be that people want two chapters today. Not the worst combination you could have chosen for cliffhangers, though some of you may disagree. I don't think this chapter is going to make any of you like Mycroft any more than you already do, but give him a chance... not that he's earned it yet, but when he does let him have it. 
> 
> I think you'll find this chapter less angsty? Probably more frustrating, but less angsty. 
> 
> Warnings: all the discussions and attitudes usually found when someone doesn't want to be pregnant and is; dominance abuse;

Even on the weekend Mycroft Holmes did not sleep in.

Most commonly this was because he was at the office by nine; the late start to reflect that it _was_ the weekend, but on the international stage the weekend was an artificial construct, having Thursday-Friday and Friday-Saturday variants in the Middle East alone for example, so somewhere in the world, even without the time zones, one of his counterparts was working, which meant Mycroft was too. That didn’t mean he didn’t have days off where he worked from his home office and reviewed his finances and the Estate’s figures – fully contactable on home phone, mobile phone, pager and email – or that he never went on holiday, most commonly extended weekends at the Family Estate to visit Mummy – contactable on mobile phone, pager and email - it just meant he was always awake, dressed and working, or preparing for work, in some capacity or another by eight o’clock.

So for Mycroft Holmes to be sitting at his kitchen table in pyjamas and a dressing gown determinably not staring at the wall after ten in the morning was, to say the least, a highly unusual state of affairs, even for a Saturday.

Of course, he wouldn’t be there at all if not for his traitorous PA.

In defiance of Arum’s order Mycroft had in fact turned up to work yesterday and had successfully avoided her for three hours by ensuring he was ensconced in high profile meetings, none of which had originally been on his schedule as they were of more face than substantive value. Mycroft found the posturing tedious so attended only as frequently as required to maintain his influence. This saved both his patience and the illusion of free reign; it would never be suitable for his role in affairs to become publically obvious.

He’d sat, interjecting only at the utmost need, while mentally recording details to be documented later. It was a challenging task, it had been quite some time since he’d had to mentally minute a meeting as well as keep a record of his own observations, but it would never do for him to be seen writing things down. The slim notebook that normally resided in his jacket pocket was a prop, not a true memory aid.

Arum had slipped into the meeting room at the three hour mark and sat elegantly in the seat next to him, as appropriate for a PA. As appropriate for _his_ PA, her presence was accepted without a word despite no one else’s assistants being present.

Mycroft defiantly continued to minute the meeting and his own observations in his head, despite Arum beginning her own written record in impeccable shorthand. Not a single word, expression or flicker of muscle was anything less than perfectly implacable as she acted utterly unconcerned about her late arrival. The others would have assumed it was because she had been performing other duties.

Which she had been: clearing Mycroft’s schedule for his unrequested day off.

So when the Prime Minister had mentioned he had to leave at the four hour mark for a Customs and Excise meeting and asked whether Mycroft was also attending...well, he was merely a simple bureaucrat whose presence was being requested by the head of the government so _of course_ he would attend.

Arum’s revenge was swift and subtle.

Mycroft’s one regular indulgence with his eating regime was bread. He hated whole grain, preferring fresh crusty white rolls, steaming Turkish breads and flavoursome sourdoughs. So naturally the lunch delivered to the meeting arrived with an introductory corollary about the new government health initiatives that were being implemented, including salad instead of roast vegetables, lean chicken instead of lamb roast with gravy, and, relevant to this particular lunch, wholemeal bread sandwiches and bran muffins instead of white bread and pastries, all perfectly nutritionally balanced for the lone female, and obviously pregnant, member of the meeting.... well Mycroft only wished Sherlock was half as understated and effective. The things they could do...

He was a fair Dominant. He could admire her efforts even while planning three different ways even she could disappear. He was allowed to dream, and while chocking down the sandwiches and his water, she had served everyone else tea or coffee and it wasn’t worth the even miniscule negative impression to correct her (which she knew), oh he could dream!

By the time the meeting, and honestly to call it such was laughable, finally ended Mycroft could vaguely empathise with Sherlock’s fondness for John’s fire arm during periods of extreme boredom. Only he wasn’t sure he would have been going to aim at the wall.

Arum had coolly informed him his four o’clock meeting with the head of the French Secret Service, unofficial of course (both the meeting and the position) was still on. Obviously, Mycroft had thought, this was one she hadn’t managed to cancel before discovering him. Good, the day wouldn’t be a total waste and he might get some real work done despite everything to the contrary.

He had allowed a tight smirk in light of this victory, which was quickly derailed as they passed Q in the corridor who had grasped Mycroft’s hand and offered his sincere condolences; it truly was too awful, wasn’t it, and of course everyone understood why he’d taken the next four days leave, and not to worry, they’d handle everything. Really, it was a testament to Mycroft’s dedication he’d come in that day, even for such important meetings, but naturally after such a tragic event...

In fact, Mycroft should take longer. Four days was hardly enough time to organise things _and_ to reconnect with family at such an important and moving time. Yes, he’d let everyone know Mycroft would be _completely_ unavailable and uncontactable for _anything_ and may take further time. Really, everyone understood, and Q wished him and his all the best.

Mycroft hadn’t been able to prevent himself clenching his jaw through Q’s enthusiastic spiel, which was unfortunately taken by Q as further evidence of Mycroft’s distress. Distress over what Mycroft wasn’t quite sure, but he had grimaced through the little speech knowing he’d find out eventually. Q finally continued walking, a last firm handshake and another enthusiastic round of condolences, and Mycroft had turned to Arum, not bothering to hide his fury.

“Explain.” He had hissed through clenched teeth, drawing himself instinctively to his full icy height.

Arum had merely met his eye and tilted her head the slightest bit left and down, acknowledging his Dominance without conceding her position.

“Your request for leave due to family circumstances was approved. It was necessary to inform Q and your other conflicting engagements of this change of events.” She couldn’t quite hide the smile in her voice. “Q being such an inveterate gossip I’m sure the message will have been passed onto all relevant people within MI6, and probably most of the other offices and associated Government organisations as well soon, so you can be assured of leave with absolutely no interruptions. Sir.”

“And what,” Mycroft’s voice had trembled slightly with the force of his anger as he attempted to keep his voice to an acceptable volume, “did you tell them?”

“That due to an unforeseen set of circumstances you were required to take four days personal leave for your family.” Her hair had been twirled into an elaborate French twist, otherwise Mycroft was sure that she would have tossed it back over her shoulder with that pronouncement.

It was a clever line – entirely true, utterly un-sinister, and yet given Mycroft’s work ethic and history of never taking a sick day, every high ranked official who had received her notice would be providing their own imaginative and undoubtedly tragic spin.

Now, in the secluded world of his kitchen, Mycroft could acknowledge the masterful stroke that it was. The rumours would fly wild and extreme, and even if on the unlikely far-fetched chance anyone did hit on the correct explanation for his leave, the theory would be denounced as another example of crazy hearsay. She had obviously discovered his presence much earlier than he’d realised and organised this method of forcing his removal from the office in enough time to arrive at the meeting within his calculated period of discovery. She had even distracted him with a skilfully executed diversionary move, relaxing his guard while her scheme brewed to fruition.

He’d become complacent and underestimated her. It would not happen again.

At the time, however, Mycroft’s mind had latched onto two words and two words only, blocking out the rest of the world. “Four days.”

“I am sorry Sir. I would have arranged longer for you, but you have the meeting with the Prime Minister of Japan and his trip to England has been scheduled for months. Everything else has been rearranged as required.” She hadn’t said requested, but anyone who overheard that statement would instantly assume _Mycroft_ had required this reorganisation and was demanding more, not less, time.

Mycroft had begun running through his mental list of meetings and plans over the next four days to work out exactly what might be compromised: Q for technology update, security briefing, security briefing, budget meeting, meeting with possible future Prime Ministerial candidate, security briefing, the Queen-

She had not cancelled his meeting with the Queen.

“Her Majesty has sent her condolences and best wishes. She will be available at your convenience upon your return. Harry will confirm the exact date with you soon.”

At that moment, Mycroft had honestly felt he could have hurt her, have turned his full Dominance on her and driven her to her knees right there in the public corridor. Until then her actions had been somewhat endearing, a kitten playing in Lion’s territory, but now she had interfered with very important matters. One did not simply _reschedule_ the Queen of England, especially when one had no wish to do so.

She knew. She had known every thought that crossed his mind, known that should he choose he could have Dominated her through pain she had never imagined before whether she wanted it or not, and yet she had stood in front of him defiant and unrepentant.

As angry as he’d been with her, in that split second he had never cared for her more as she showed all her hidden depths. The thought of what the predator in him might have been tempted to do if she had showed any weakness was... terrifying.

There were few people on this Earth who would dare defy him. It was strangely comforting to know he had one of them so close.

They had stayed there, a frozen tableau, while Mycroft wrestled instinct and emotion into its proper box and firmly closed the lid. Years and years of discipline would not be thrown away, let alone in public. She had waited until he was done, firmly, though reluctantly, in control of himself.

“Four days, Sir.” She didn’t need to continue.

Four days. Only four days. It wasn’t that long away from work. It wasn’t that long to be forced to sit idle. It wasn’t that long in which to investigate and adapt to his circumstances, whatever they may be.

He had not replied, but had walked in brisk steps towards his next meeting, only five minutes late. She had not followed him, but when he entered his office for the first time all day, his briefcase was ready and waiting and she was noticeably absent.

So now he sat here, at the table, listening to the minute sounds that whispered through the house. There was traffic from outside, the occasional bird singing, a dog barking at a passer-by, all mingling with the distant clatter as Mrs Potts, the housekeeper, performed her latest inspection before returning to the Estate.

Mrs Potts was an institution in the Holmes family. She’d been Housekeeper for the Holmes Estate for as long as Mycroft could remember, and through all those years had looked the same: grey haired, round, and cheery. He could remember asking as a very young child, before Sherlock was born, why she was the housekeeper if her name was Mrs Potts. Surely she should have been the cook? She had smiled and stroked his hair, a gesture that had always been allowed from her though never anyone else, and told him that she was married to Mr Potts, the Beta Dominant gardener, and that’s why she was Mrs Potts. Mycroft had thought, decided that Potts was a satisfactory name for a gardener, and accepted her role in the household without further question. It was appropriate after all to his young mind that the housekeeper be married to the gardener.

He’d had nannies, of course he’d had nannies, and minders and by the time he was thirteen he’d had a valet, admittedly one he’d had to share with Sherlock, but he always gone to Mrs Potts when he actually needed something – a band aid because Sherlock’s experiment had gone wrong, a midnight snack because he was hungry and scared of Cook, a pat on the head because Mummy and Daddy were busy and Father was gone and he’d just achieved the best result in the year again on a test. Mrs Potts just was: a childhood relic that seemed more at home in fairy tales than real life.

Because she just was, she’d followed him down to London. Oh not permanently. She came down twice a week on the train, he’d offered a driver after she insisted on making the trip and was continually refused, because she had to make sure her boys were living properly. She no longer checked in on Sherlock, satisfied that Martha Hudson had him well in hand, though she routinely joined Mrs Hudson for scones and a gossip about the youngest Holmes and _other_ topics, but she was still here, twice a week, doing his cleaning since he had failed to settle down to her satisfaction. There was never too much to do, a deliberate move on Mycroft’s behalf in deference to her age. He’d suggested retirement once, only once, and her response had been that she would retire when a suitable replacement had been trained.

So far a ‘suitable replacement’ hadn’t even been found, let alone begun what would undoubtedly be an extensive training period.

Mycroft took a sip of his tea and grimaced. Camomile tea. He would have preferred Earl Grey or English Breakfast, but apparently Arum’s unrepentant rampage through his life had included his kitchen. It was now stocked with a variety of herbal and green teas and no conventional caffeinated tea or coffee. The alcohol cabinet had also acquired a lock, something which had never existed before and obviously more of a suggestion than an order as Arum was well aware Mycroft was capable of using lock picks, he had taught Sherlock as a child, and if she’d truly thought she needed to prevent him drinking she would have ordered the alcohol removed from the premises. All in all, meaningless gestures, but gestures with a very strong implication Mycroft chose to ignore.

He took another sip of the tea. He wouldn’t have had it at all, if he’d had his own way. A glass of juice would have been more than sufficient as his morning beverage and could easily replace tea until he organised for more to be procured, but he’d made the mistake of remaining abed longer than he ought to have, knowing he didn’t have to, _couldn’t_ , go into the office, and the sight of him in his pyjamas had sent Mrs Potts into Fuss Mode, resulting in a Full English breakfast being prepared despite his protestations. The smell of the eggs had sent him running, gagging for the bathroom, and when he returned plain toast and the tea was waiting for him with a stern evaluating eye.

She didn’t say anything, but Mycroft suspected that even if one of his preferred teas had been available he would have only been given the herbal variety anyway. Certainly Mrs Potts had then rampaged through his kitchen in the manner only a privileged family Submissive could and had disposed of anything Arum had missed that she no longer deemed ...appropriate for his diet.

Mycroft half wondered whether she had been talking to Arum, but then Mrs Potts had always been one of those old ladies who _knew_. She didn’t deduce, she just knew.

The silk of his scarlet pyjama pants whispered across his skin as he shuffled his slippered feet. One finger idly stroked the black silk of the dressing gown near his elbow, a habit he only indulged in when alone and even then rarely. He did not deny he was a sensualist, his clothing was of the highest quality, his sheets were silk or impossibly high thread count cotton, and he savoured every bite of food for its texture as much as its taste, but it would never do to show the world that weakness through distinctive wear patterns.

He was Mycroft Holmes. He did not have weaknesses. He did not make mistakes.

He ignored the slim white object next to his tea cup that suggested otherwise.

He remained where he was, absently stroking his dressing gown and staring at the wall, through the sounds of scraping at the front door and Mrs Potts throwing it open to confront the poor fool attempting to pick the lock in broad daylight. Her voice rose in a melodic and fervent scolding, growing closer as they progressed down the passage way.

He hadn’t expected Sherlock for half an hour, but at least his brother had deigned to come at all.

Sherlock was released at the doorway with a parting admonishment regarding doorbells, a hug, and a warning to pass on her best wishes to Martha Hudson or else. With a cheery smile Mrs Potts informed them both that she was going to pop down the store for some supplies, Mycroft grimaced, and she’d make them some lunch when she got back.

Mycroft didn’t bother to request tea or coffee. The pointed glance at his plate and the accompanying maternal eyebrow suggested until he could prove they were otherwise acceptable foodstuffs, he wasn’t getting either. He nonchalantly took a bite of toast as Sherlock dropped into the chair opposite, gangly limbs flying everywhere.

It was one of life’s great mysteries how Sherlock could be both incredibly elegant and at the same time resemble a teenager who hadn’t yet grown into his body. Every movement was precise and graceful, but the overall effect still resembled a sprawling heap of body and limbs.

Sherlock eyed the kitchen, observing all the little details only another Holmes would notice as he pulled his gloves off and deposited them on the table. His scarf joined them, the black collar gleaming dully around his neck. The silver Omega embellishment had been recently cleaned, Mycroft noticed absently, and the leather freshly oiled and buffed. The relationship was still going well then.

That was good. Being Bonded no more guaranteed a successful relationship than anything else, and despite John Watson being a good Alpha, things could still go wrong with far more disastrous results than the collapse of a normal relationship, because when something went wrong in a Bonded relationship, there was no exit strategy left. If there was anything that could go wrong, Sherlock’s self-destructive tendencies would almost guarantee it would.

Mycroft did worry so about him.

Finally finished with his sweep, Sherlock turned to regard his brother with his grey-blue eyes. “She was quite thorough in her clean out.”

Mycroft wasn’t sure which she Sherlock was referring to, Arum or Mrs Potts. He would never let Sherlock know this though.

“She felt it necessary.”

“I’m sure they both did.”

There was silence while Mycroft sipped his tea and attempted not to grimace. Fetching something else to drink felt like surrender, but it was awful. Sherlock’s eyes flickered from Mycroft’s face to the tea cup, and back to his face. Mycroft wondered what he was reading from the situation.

“I apologise for not responding last night. I was... unavailable.” Sherlock looked away out the window.

Unavailable could mean so many things. Sherlock could have been on a case, he could have been tied up at John’s enthusiastic mercy, he could have been deep in the throes of ennui. Mycroft didn’t like the fact he didn’t know which it was. He was so used to knowing, and Sherlock always made it hard to deduce.

“This morning is more convenient.”

Last night Mycroft had wanted Sherlock’s attention right then as he struggled to cope, to the point of bowing to his brother’s preference for text communication over calls, but then last night Mycroft had been more emotional than he was fond of admitting and it was fortuitous Sherlock had been otherwise occupied. He wasn’t sure if he really would have wanted anyone, even, or perhaps especially, his brother to see him in such a state.

“I’m sure.”

Mycroft wasn’t certain what to make of that response. Certainly Sherlock was limiting his visual cues with tightly controlled body language. It wasn’t a purposeful behaviour, Sherlock was unlikely to be hiding anything from him at that time, but growing up with each other they both instinctively controlled their non-verbal communications to a more precise degree than most politicians or actors. It had served Mycroft well in government and Sherlock undercover, but it did make conversations between them more tense and reserved. It was hard to be open with your words when the person across from you was so rigidly blank with their body.

He took a sip of tea and allowed the silence to fall, almost wishing the tick of the old fashioned grandfather clock could be heard from here. There was nothing unusual about the conversation so far, but Mycroft was already feeling disquieted. This was not a topic he had ever wanted to have to discuss after all.

“Would it be easier if I ask?” Sherlock almost sounded bored. “Or I can deduce for you. I have recently been made aware that this is occasionally a favoured means of having these conversations.”

“These conversations?” Mycroft inquired politely.

“The awkward ones.”

“Ah. Indeed.”

It was an opening. If nothing else it was an opportunity to enquire into Sherlock’s life and exactly when he had been in such a situation, Sherlock hardly being most people’s choice of conversation partner for said troublesome discussions. Instead Mycroft took a sip of his tea. Now that Sherlock was here, he found he was reluctant to broach the subject and make it real.

Sherlock sighed. It was over the top, exaggerated, and completely his brother.

“Fine.” Sherlock swung around to face Mycroft straight on, no more slumping sideways. It was always unnerving to have Sherlock’s full attention, even if you were Mycroft Holmes, and Sherlock never failed to use that when he felt the need. “I’ll ask then. Tell me about Lestrade and the fact you slept together.”

Mycroft started. Well of course Sherlock would have worked it out, Gregory would hardly have been able to hide his end of the affair, but that didn’t necessarily mean that he was the one who... maybe there had been some trace of him on Gregory when Sherlock had-

“Please, Mycroft. Do occasionally consider the obvious.”

“The obvious?”

Sherlock smirked. “Greg told me.”

There was a sharp crunch that drew both their eyes downward to where Mycroft’s fingers had tightened around the delicate, and no longer attached, handle on his tea cup.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Interesting. Was it that he told me or that I called him Greg?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Mycroft calmly stood and poured his tea down the sink to cover the fact that he did honestly have no idea why he had reacted that way.

He returned to the table in two forceful, but reluctant strides, every move documented by Sherlock’s questing eyes. Surprisingly his brother chose not to say anything as Mycroft settled himself back at the table. In fact, he continued to not say anything as Mycroft fussed with his dressing gown and retied the belt, and still not to say anything as Mycroft straightened and faced him, tilting his chin to look down his nose imperiously at Sherlock.

“There is nothing to discuss regarding Detective Inspector Lestrade.”

“Really.” Sherlock drawled. “Because that’s not the impression I got from _Greg_.”

Mycroft refused to react, having already inadvertently succumbed to Sherlock’s pointed strikes once. “I am surprised the Detective Inspector was open to discussions on the subject.”

Sherlock leant back in his chain, fingers steepling under his chin as he prepared his next move. “For a significant portion of time he wasn’t, but the physical evidence was still... sufficient for those not blind idiots to determine events. Recently he has been quite enthusiastic in volunteering information.”

“Indeed.”

There certainly had been plenty of physical traces of their time. Mycroft’s memory of the weekend may have been hazy thanks to the hormones his body had been swamping him with, but he could remember the feel of the riding crop in his hand as it impacted with Gregory’s buttocks and the glorious sight he had presented, skin flushed and cross crossed with warm red lines.

He clenched his jaw, reminding himself that even if these were the physical traces Sherlock had seen, he had seen them in an entirely innocent context because Sherlock was Bonded and would never, ever cheat on John.

Not that it mattered. Gregory was free to sleep and play with whomever he wished.

In fact he should.

And soon.

Repeatedly.

So that both of them could move on.

Sherlock’s lip twitched and Mycroft wondered exactly what tell the detective was using to follow his thought pattern. Unfortunately each of them knew each other so well the smallest slip was easily pulled apart for details, and if forced Mycroft would have had to concede that he was still more than slightly emotionally compromised, making it more challenging to maintain the carefully crafted exterior he normally chose to present.

Being brothers those details were almost incontrovertibly utilised to pressure weak points and exploit insecurities.

Mycroft knew Sherlock loved him, but was also well aware that his younger brother had never forgiven him for being what he never could be, had never managed to overcome the resentment that had sprung up between them when Sherlock hit his teenage years and puberty as a Submissive. Sherlock could, and would, use every piece of evidence against Mycroft.

“So Mycroft, which was it, the fact that Greg told me about your little Heat, or the fact that your _friend_ Greg came to me to talk about something not you?” There was a strong mocking emphasis on the word friend, as if Sherlock were aware that maybe things weren’t so simple between the two of them anymore.

“I will not get involved in your childish contest, Sherlock. The Detective Inspector is not a toy, and this is not kindergarten. I will not fight over him.” Mycroft took a small bite of his very cold toast, and then walked calmly to the fridge for juice. There was no way he would give Sherlock the satisfaction of seeing him tense every time his brother uncharacteristically used Gregory’s given name.

“Indeed?”

“Indeed.” Mycroft knew his voice was slightly tighter than normal, but all this talk of Gregory was playing havoc with his mind. He was still unsettled after the... incident on Thursday night.

“Alright then.” Sherlock smiled from behind his fingers as Mycroft returned to his seat with two glasses of water. “So if we’re not going to talk about Gregory,” he made sure to draw out every syllable of the name, “what am I here to talk about?”

Mycroft took a breath, then took a drink of water. He absolutely did not fiddle with the glass of water.

Sherlock gave an annoyed huff. “Mycroft, I am here because you requested my presence. I assure you I had better things to be doing this morning and as several of my experiments are time sensitive I do not have an unlimited supply of-”

“I’m pregnant.” Sherlock’s mouth closed with a snap. “But then surely,” Mycroft continued, built up anxiety translating to a distinctive sneer, “you could have deduced that from the obvious, or were you trying not to see?”

Sherlock broke eye contact first, swallowing heavily. He had suspected then, but hadn’t wanted to acknowledge the evidence. Mycroft had wondered whether he’d noticed the test Arum had retrieved from the bin and packed in his briefcase on the table between them, now hidden from Sherlock’s view by his scarf, or whether his deduction had been based on the tea and Mycroft’s minute weight gain alone. It would have been just like his brother to look past something in such plain view in favour of more diminutive clues. Especially when it wasn’t something he wanted to see. Sometimes he could be so unobservant.

“Lestrade’s?”

Back to surname basis, Mcyroft noted. Sherlock was serious now.

“Of course.”

“He doesn’t know.”

“Don’t be absurd, of course he doesn’t.” Mycroft took a sip of his water.

“I am well aware that he is not informed of the situation, Mycroft.” There was a pause. “How long have you known? Oh, of course. Last night. That’s why you texted me.”

“Yes.” There was no point denying it.

“I suppose that explains your unusual attire at this hour. Been forcibly removed from the office have we?”

Sherlock hadn’t looked back his way, choosing to keep his gaze somewhere around the bottom of the cabinets. Mycroft was appreciative of this as his own gaze was fused to the table beyond his water glass. His inability to focus elsewhere felt less involuntary when he wasn’t required to meet his brother’s gaze.

“I have taken several days leave.”

Sherlock snorted. “She kicked you out, didn’t she? Good.”

Mycroft declined to answer and they sat there for several long minutes in silence.

“Have you seen Lestrade lately?” Sherlock’s fingers danced idly over the edge of the table and eventually settled for twining through the ends of his scarf like a cat.

“Naturally. Last Thursday we had dinner together. You are aware of our custom, I believe.”

“Not this week then.”

“No, he was unavailable due to a meeting at New Scotland Yard.”

“Is that so? You may wish to wait until after three this afternoon to call him. It is highly unlikely he will be able to answer before then.”

Mycroft chose not to correct to Sherlock’s rather erroneous assumption. “Yes, I imagine he’s busy working.”

Sherlock’s fingers paused briefly in their movements before withdrawing from their occupation. “No, he’s not.”

How unusual. Gregory was as dedicated to his profession as Mycroft was to his.

A weight settled on Mycroft’s forehead and he slowly lifted his gaze to meet Sherlock’s considering regard.

“Yes?” He asked politely, re-crossing his legs and the knee and settling casually back in his chair. The rustling sweep of material was less enjoyable in the circumstances than it might have been.

“You’re very calm about your relationship with him.” Sherlock’s voice was questioning even if his statement was not.

“There is nothing to be emotional about. Gregory and I have reached an understanding.”

“An understanding?” Sherlock leant forward onto his elbows. “Mycroft, he’s falling to pieces.”

“Nonsense. There are some lingering issues I admit, but he is well on the path to overcoming these emotional deficiencies.”

Most people wouldn’t be able to tell the facial expression currently adorning Sherlock’s visage was complete shock. Mycroft wondered whether John could or whether this was still an ability unique to him alone. He jealously hoped for the latter. He’d had to give enough of Sherlock to the world. This much of his little brother he could keep.

“Do you honestly believe that?” Sherlock was subdued.

“Of course. He was incredulous at my suggestion of potential partner, but I suspect it has never occurred to him to regard Sergeant Donovan in such a way so I am confident in time he will-”

“You told him that you were sleeping with your PA so he should sleep with the closest equivalent he has?”

Intriguing. Mycroft hadn’t considered the fact that Sally Donovan played a similar role in Gregory’s life to the one Arum played in his. Both were strong, female, Dominant seconds, more than competent in a variety of extreme situations. Indeed, the more challenging the respective environments the more the women seemed to thrive, and neither of them was particularly fond of Sherlock.

Many people weren’t particularly fond of Sherlock.

“She would be eminently suitable for him, once she dispenses with her extreme dislike of you.”

“He won’t do it.”

Clearly Sherlock knew nothing about the situation at hand. Gregory was slowly throwing off the shackles of Estrus induced emotion, was comfortably handling Mycroft’s own sexual liaisons, and with the slightest of on-going suggestions Mycroft was sure he would accept the idea in his own time.

“Gregory is handling the situation perfectly, Sherlock.”

“ _Gregory,”_ Sherlock mimicked, “is absolutely not handling the situation perfectly, _Mycroft_.”

“I assure you-”

“Mycroft, he’s one step away from being fired. He’s frequenting bars and shady clubs in order to attempt to pick up prostitutes to get over you. Attempting and failing, I might add. He’s barely sleeping, his diet consists mainly of the swill the Yard label coffee, and he’s emotionally unstable to the point of being one small step away from a mental breakdown.”

Mycroft carefully cleaned under a fingernail.

“He is not coping, Mycroft.” Sherlock’s voice was sharp.

“He will with time, Sherlock. I assure you his job is safe until such time as he recovers fully from this emotional lapse.”

“Emotional lapse.”

“Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock. You and I both learnt this lesson, perhaps it is time the Detective Inspector did too.”’

“You’re wrong.” Sherlock was quiet in his refusal. “We both were.”

Mycroft flicked his eyes up, but didn’t bother to move his head from his cocked position. “Oh I see. Bonded and now we’re all _sentimental_.”

Sherlock straightened imperceptivity, his hands curling into fists on the table. “I’m not ashamed to admit I care for John. Not anymore.”

“How sweet.” Mycroft turned dismissively back to his fingernail.

“Is it so hard for you to admit you might care?”

Mycroft resisted the urge to roll his eyes and pushed his shuddering heart aside. “Your insinuation is not unnoticed, little brother, but there is nothing to admit with reference to Gregory Lestrade and I will not reiterate my stance with respect of yourself.”

“You used to smile at him.”

“I smile a lot.” Mycroft smiled his politician’s smile at Sherlock, just to prove it.

“You were happy with him Mycroft.”

“I am a civil servant, Sherlock, I frequently enjoy the situations I find myself in, and if not, everyone believes I do anyway.”

“So you refuse to even consider a relationship with him?”

“Gregory and I are already in an established relationship, Sherlock. We are friends.”

“Friends don’t destroy their friends.”

“Are you suggesting I have destroyed Gregory? Because I assure you that is not scientifically possible, and of the two of us I would be the one to suffer political destruction, not him.”

“You’ve shredded his soul, Mycroft. At least feel a little guilty.” Sherlock spat the words at him over the table. John _had_ been rubbing off on him, but then, Sherlock had always taken harm to the few people he cared about as personal attacks, even if he never admitted it.

Mycroft refused to feel the guilt that regularly surfaced at the thought of Gregory’s tired face and wane appearance. It would be resolved in time. Gregory would move on and things would be _normal_ again.

Was that too much to ask for?

“You haven’t even talked to him about this, have you?”

No, of course not. The matter had been sufficiently clear. There was no need to dissect every detail as if they were gossiping Submissives.

“There is nothing to discuss.”

“I think he may decide otherwise when you call him. I believe the phrase is ‘game changer’.”

Mycroft splayed his hand in the air, and examined each nail, before looking up and firmly drawing their gazes together. “I will not be calling him.”

Point made, he returned to studying his hand, pale at the end of the black and red silks.

Sherlock started. “You need to call him.”

“There is no need.”

“This is his child too, Mycroft-”

“There is no need, Sherlock.” Mycroft turned his head to the side, eyes lingering on the sink and the broken china tea cup. “I have four days leave ,which should be a sufficient recovery period for-”

Mycroft jumped as Sherlock slammed his hands down on the table. He swung back to face his brother to find the Submissive on his feet, hunched over the table, arms and elbows trembling.

“You bastard.” Sherlock mumbled. “You total and utter bastard.” Slowly his eyes rose, frosty black surrounded by burning grey rings. “How dare you, how fucking dare you! You -”

“What? Rid myself of an undesired inconvenience incompatible with my lifestyle? Why wouldn’t I?”

“This is not all about you!”

“This is my choice.”

“It’s not only your choice.”

“It is _my_ choice, no one else’s.”

“Lestrade-”

“Has nothing to do with my life.”

“Because you won’t let him! This is his _child,_ Mycroft!”

“I am not destroying the work of generations for this _parasite_!”

The water glass flew past Mycroft’s left ear and shattered against the wall, raining water drops and crystal shards on the skirting board and floors.

“ **Sit Down!”** Mycroft roared, deliberately surrounding his words with Dominant force.

Sherlock’s elbows trembled with the strain of disobeying, lip caught between clenched teeth. His head bowed with the effort, but not before Mycroft saw the slightest hint of crimson welling at the interface of teeth and skin.

“For God’s sake, Sherlock, stop being such a child and **sit down**.”

With a strangled yelp Sherlock collapsed into the chair. “Bastard.”

“This has to **stop** , Sherlock. You’re not a rebellious child anymore. You’re Bonded and need to accept your role and dynamic-”

“I need to accept! I need to accept! I’m not the one who fucking needs to accept, Mycroft!”

“You know your acting out only ever upset Mummy.”

“This is not about _me_! This is about you and _your_ inability to accept yourself and what it’s doing to the people around you!”

Mycroft levelled a glare at Sherlock capable of spearing bugs to a wall. “I have accept-”

“No, you haven’t!” Sherlock leapt to his feet again, leaning forward over the table, obviously in order to give himself the greatest psychological advantage, a tactic which would not work on Mycroft. “You have never accepted it! You’ve ignored it, and that is not the same thing.”

“I am a Dominant, Sherlock.”

“And an Omega.”

“A characteristic which has had no influence on my life until this point.”

“Because you can’t handle it! Do you think I can’t remember, Mycroft? Do you honestly believe that _I_ can’t remember you breaking down and crying yourself to sleep every night? I used to sneak into your room to comfort you, I know you haven’t accepted it!”

Anger spiked in Mycroft’s chest at the mention of those terrifying years after his very sense of self had been ripped away, where everything had gone from being perfect to him being ‘the problem child’ everyone regarded with long, guarded looks and spoke about in hushed tones.

“I am a Dominant!” He snarled.

“And you’ve excluded the thought of being anything else!” Sherlock snarled back. “Everything has to be about Dynamic with you. I’m a Dominant, I’m a Dominant, I’m a perfect fucking Dominant heir who’s going to rule the world because I’m Dominant and I can and there’s no room for anything else in my life!”

“There is nothing else, Sherlock. Everything else is meaningless.”

“No, it’s not, you’re just too fucking scared to try it. You’ve run terrified from the thought of being an Omega since you found out. You have pushed everyone away, you have never given anything a chance because you’re too scared to take a chance and your situation has allowed you to hide!”

“I am not scared!” Mycroft roared, surging to his feet.

“Yes, you are! You always have been! Every relationship you’ve ever had you’ve destroyed when there was any sort of possibility of it being meaningful! Because you’re a coward who can’t stand the thought of being hurt!”

“No one could know!” Mycroft slammed his own palm down on the table, squaring off with Sherlock across its narrow width.

“You never let anyone get close enough that was even a risk, and now you have someone who knows, someone who loves you, someone who is perfect for you, and you’re deliberately and purposefully destroying everything between you because _you are petrified that you care!_ ”

“I do not care about Gregory!”

“Yes, you fucking do!”

A sharp noise reverberated through the kitchen as Sherlock’s head swung to the side. Mycroft’s elbow collapsed, shoulder sluggishly lowering the arm back to his chest. Sherlock’s cheek was red, and Mycroft could feel a throbbing strip on the back of his hand where it had made contact with his cheekbone.

“Stop projecting your issues with your dynamic onto me.” He spat venomously, feeling disconnected from everything. He was speaking, but his mind was entirely in his hand, beating in time with every throb.

Slowly Sherlock’s head straightened and he raised his eyes to meet Mycroft’s. People’s eyes did not change colour with emotions, for all that they danced or shone with them, but Mycroft would have sworn in front of the highest court in the land that Sherlock’s eyes were completely, 100% black at that moment.

“Call Gregory.” He dropped his eyes and slowly and calmly started piling his scarf and gloves into his arms. He had never reached the point of removing his coat.

“Or what?” Mycroft spat at a loss. The situation was spiralling out of his control, and he didn’t know what to do to reassert his will over it.

Sherlock glanced up, eyes still unfathomably dark and empty. “Or I will.” He moved to the kitchen door in precise, controlled movements and paused without looking back. “By tonight, Mycroft.”

He walked out without another backwards glance, leaving Mycroft standing desperately alone and careening out of control in his kitchen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah, Mexican stomach bug my rear end. Not that all/many/any of you fell for it, but I needed some way to cover up morning sickness, and let's face it, Sherlock isn't' the only Holmes really good at ignoring things he doesn't want to see on very flimsy pretexts. 
> 
> Onto the next Chapter!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter # 2, as promised. 
> 
> Warnings: None really, unless the repercussions of too much alcohol count

Discomfort lingered at the edges of his thoughts, not quite pressing enough to wake him, but enough to start the slow process of rousing him from oblivion. It wasn’t much to start with, just a faint awareness of his body which was trying to send some very unpleasant signals through to his brain. They were muted at first, but as he was dragged further and further back to himself they morphed into discrete complaints.

His bladder was full, he noted fuzzily. Very full, but somehow not pressing. His tongue felt heavy, but so did the rest of his face and arms, though one of them chose to inform him he had pins and needles. His eyes felt dry and crusty, but there was no way he was moving one of those painfully heavy limbs to wipe them. His head was muzzy, and a dull weight was slowly becoming more prominent between his eyes.

He wasn’t sure how long he lay there, letting sensations run through his body. No thoughts. Thoughts were too much effort, too active for his current passive state.

He thought he may have passed out again. Certainly the next thing he was aware of was a series of conflicting signals, his bladder demanding he move _now_ and his head informing him fervently that that was not possible. Moving anything was not possible. He had automatically screwed up his lids as the dull throb behind his left eye made itself known, but that had triggered a sharp penetrating pain behind his right. Twitching his fingers produced similar results and the elegant “guh” that left his mouth in pain shot through his brain like hot lead.

The pain didn’t dull the need to pee and Greg reluctantly forced one eye open. White excruciating light lanced through his brain causing an instantaneous reaction. Greg had just enough mental presence to lean over the edge of the bed rather than vomit over his sheets and himself.

Each retching movement had a corresponding throb or bolt of pain in his poor, poor head. By the fifth time his stomach rebelled he was throwing up pure bile, but then the convulsions finally stopped. He hung there, upper body off the side of the bed, blood rushing to his brain and waited. Waited for his head to stop swirling, his jaw to stop tingling and his stomach to stop protesting. Unfortunately his bladder refused to let him wait long.

With the greatest of reluctance Greg slowly tried opening one heavy eyelid again. This time only his head reacted and the throbbing at least didn’t provoke his other bodily functions the way the sharper pain had. He slowly raised his head, suddenly very aware that his mouth felt like a cat had died in it.

A glass of water stood watch over him on the bedside table with two small pills. Greg was in no state to do anything more than down them and the water hoping they were painkillers and not something he’d regret taking at a later date.

This made his bladder an even greater issue and Greg resigned himself to movement or wetting himself like a toddler. He rolled carefully across his bed in the least jarring manner possible and let his feet fall awkwardly over the edge. Actually standing required a strange movement where he partially rolled off the bed and caught himself on the bedside table before making it shakily to standing. He stumbled gracelessly towards the door, going slightly too far and crashing into the book case, which did at least support him the rest of the way to the door frame.

Navigating the hallway mostly involved bouncing from wall to wall until he at last managed to launch himself shakily at the toilet door. His bladder was so full that relieving himself was almost painful. Certainly his head was in varying levels of extreme discomfort, to put it lightly, as it sloshed around in his skull. He remained there, arm extended against the wall over the toilet to keep him up-right and head resting on arm, much longer than he need to waiting for the movement in his head to stop.

What next? Everything in him cried out for bed, but bed was down the corridor and his mouth was really getting to him. Running his tongued along his teeth left him convulsing through dry heaves, as apparently he’d also run out of bile.

So teeth? Maybe a shower while he was here, and then he’d crawl back down the corridor to pass out again in his bed and sleep through the rest of the pain.

Greg reached clumsily for his toothbrush, smearing his hand through the toothpaste as he did. He stopped and blinked. Toothpaste? Of course there was toothpaste on his toothbrush, he was going to brush his teeth. Had he? He didn’t remember....his head throbbed again to remind him exactly why he wasn’t thinking and remembering definitely came under thinking. Instead he picked up his toothbrush and applied it to his teeth with a not often felt dedication.

It was unpleasant, jolting his head around as he reached for the darkest corners of his mouth to chase the disgusting fuzzy coating, but he persisted because now that he was starting to come back to himself he couldn’t stand the thought of it being otherwise. His clothes were shed with similar enthusiasm, though haste was still beyond him.

He ignored the mirror as he stepped into the shower. He hadn’t looked in one any less than fully clothed for over two months and today was not the day to change that. He had no doubt that he _really_ didn’t want to see his appearance.

The water sluiced over his head, drowning the creaks of the pipes though the occasional squeaking squeals still penetrated to play havoc with his head. He was gentle as he ran his fingers through his hair to distribute the shampoo. It took a lot longer than his usual vigorous rubbing, but it also meant he didn’t end up whimpering in the bottom of the bathtub. Never had he been more grateful for his 2-in-1 shampoo and conditioner. It meant he was out of the shower in ten minutes, pulling his robe against the winter weather, but not bothering to spare the time to dry.

Instead he limped straight back down the hall with the wall as his guiding support. The expanse between the nice, _solid_ door frame and his bed seemed insurmountable, but with Herculean effort Greg forced himself that little bit further to collapse on the soft expanse.

He’d just rest here a moment, then he’d pull back the covers… and find that damn beeping that was adding to the mess in his head. In just a moment. Just a momen-

Greg’s return to consciousness was shorter, but more gentle the second time around. He lay there, face buried in the pillow, wondering what had woken him.

Oh right, the beeping. He should deal with that.

And the smell. Greg wrinkled his nose and buried his face deeper in the pillow.

He lay there a few more moments taking stock. His head still throbbed, but it no longer felt like each beat of his heart was being mimicked by a sledge hammer in his head. His stomach rumbled to remind him he hadn’t eaten all day, but the very thought of eating made him feel nauseous again. So no food yet.

Greg swallowed and decided maybe he’d clean his teeth again. His mouth still felt... unhygienic.

This time around Greg possessed enough presence of mind to turn his head just the slightest to read his alarm clock. He had to squint slightly to read the numbers, but eventually he did manage to make out the glowing red 5:06 without moving from the opposite side of the bed. 5:06. He doubted somehow that was am, not unless he’d been out for over 24 hours. He had however, managed to sleep the whole day away.

With a slight moan as he moved his very stiff neck he sat up. He was not as young as he used to be and falling asleep on his front, twice, was not advisable.

Right, teeth.

Making it to the bathroom with only one stumble into the wall probably didn’t class as an achievement on the grand scale of things, but it felt enough like one to make Greg smile. Cleaning his teeth was invigorating and Greg couldn’t resist pushing the dressing gown off and standing back under the shower spray. With the less insistent headache he was finally able to appreciate the ritual and stepped out feeling, if not refreshed, at least mostly human.

Hanging his robe on the back of the door in favour of a towel, Greg ambled slowly back to his room. Slowly because his head really was still killing him, but at least now he was enough himself to know it wouldn’t actually put him in the ground. If he was careful and didn’t slam anything, that was.

He coughed as he walked back into his room and the smell assaulted his senses and his head. What the – oh. Greg sighed as he pulled on pants. Right, he’d need to clear that up. And find and stop that incessant beeping.

Track pants and a t-shirt followed. Greg briefly contemplated socks, but honestly, the chances of clean ones were astronomical and the flat was plenty warm. He must have left the heat on before he headed out to work.

He shuddered to think of the gas bill.

Right, food then –

No, clean the floor, then food. He couldn’t handle food yet, despite the gnawing feeling in his abdomen, and he really didn’t want to have to clean up his puke on a full stomach. He’d probably just add to it.

With a fortifying breath he moved unsteadily around the bed to see the damage.

It was surprisingly small. There was a massive metal mixing bowl, pressed on Greg by his culinary cousins, next to the bed and by the utmost luck and good fortune he had almost entirely vomited into it. Certainly all that was required for the rest was a quick and simple wipe with a damp cloth, quickly retrieved for that purpose from the kitchen. Greg took a bit longer to decide what to do with the bowl. He rinsed it out, but then... dishwasher? Did he really want it in with the rest of his dishes?

In the end he decided it was as good a place for it as anywhere. That was what dishwashers were for after all.

It was at this point that two things finally penetrated Greg’s brain: firstly, why was there a bowl next to his bed? Secondly, why was his mobile, his beeping mobile, plugged into charge next to a glass of water and two more pills now positively identified as painkillers?

His head chose to pulse briefly with the rest of the blood in his system so Greg decided to take care of the important matters first and popped the two pills, chasing them down with the water.

He had two missed calls on his phone and a text message. In a bizarre twist of fate, the calls were from Sherlock and the text from Mycroft.

Greg didn’t open it.

Sherlock had called him at four and then again not fifteen minutes ago. Greg frowned. That was unusual. It wasn’t that Sherlock never called, he just usually texted first and if he did call he badgered and badgered until Greg picked up. So why would he be...

Oh.

Greg gently placed his phone on the counter before he dropped it and sank into one of his kitchen chairs.

Oh great and merciful God.

He hadn’t.

Swallowing frantically Greg tried to piece everything together. He had called Sherlock and Sherlock had shown up at the pub. Yes, he remembered the pub. He remembered sitting outside and the taste of cigarette smoke on his lips.

Well that certainly explained why his mouth had tasted like an ash tray.

Then...and then he’d talked about... work that was right. Greg let out a sigh of relief. Bitching about the Yard, he would work with that. It might make Sherlock even more of an arrogant git at crime scenes knowing his opinions were shared, but at least Greg hadn’t gone on about-

A vision of Sherlock, terrible and proud, towering above him seared across Greg’s brain. What had he done to provoke that?

Well, he would just have to apologise to Sherlock for whatever it was and hope Mycroft never saw the security footage.

Greg’s eyes flew open.

Oh no. Oh no no no. He wouldn’t. Mycroft wouldn’t.

No, he forced himself to breathe. Mycroft wouldn’t. Not anymore. As long as Sherlock kept his mouth shut about Greg’s little break down then everything would be fine.

Christ, Sherlock had seen, hadn’t he? Greg had gone on about Mycroft like some pathetic mooning Sub, just as he was trying his hardest to convince Mycroft that he could do it. No, no, no.

Relax, it would be fine. Sherlock loved his brother, but didn’t really seem to like him and they were hardly the sort to share. Information and data coming so easily to them, the Holmes brothers preferred to use whatever possibly unique and hidden information they acquired as artillery, carefully horded for the most strategic striking point. As long as it was in Sherlock’s best interests, he would keep it to himself.

Greg wondered how many really good cases he could find in the cold cases files and how quickly.

Then he remembered he wasn’t likely to have time to pull them out of storage anyway. He’d probably be unemployed by the end of the week.

Greg hung his head in his hands and groaned. Could his life get any worse?

His phone beeped a reminder – text message from Mycroft.

What if it was about last night? What if he _had_ seen?

Fuck.

Fine food first. He needed to eat. Then he’d read the text that he was not avoiding.

One glance in the fridge revealed exactly how little time he’d spent at home lately. The cheese was actually green and the milk was.... well on its way to being cheese. The cupboard wasn’t much better, but the freezer at least provided a frozen loaf of bread. Greg pulled out the toaster and an ancient jar of marmite.

Marmite never went off. Greg suspected they’d find fossilised marmite jars in a thousand years and their contents would still be edible.

His phone beeped again, but Greg resolutely ignored it and walked the bathroom once he’d started the toaster. He’d clean up, collect his clothes, wash his sheets, his towels, his socks. He could at least put a load on and he certainly didn’t have the money to go out and drink tonight so he’d be stuck at home for a while. Better if it was clean.

He wondered whether Sherlock had collected his credit card on the way out of the bar. The detective had obviously brought him home and Greg was oddly touched by all the thoughtful little gestures Sherlock had made to ease Greg’s way when he woke.

Or had Sherlock called John? Greg slumped against the wall, arms full of clothing and wished his head was whole so he could bash it into the wall. Repeatedly. If Sherlock had told John, and little things like leaving out painkillers certainly smacked of John, Greg’s life was about to become hell.

He liked John. No, really, he did, but John was going to dedicate himself to reforming Greg, which in and of itself would probably drive a man to drink. John was just too _good_ at times, or at least he had the ability to appear it. Greg knew the Alpha had vices, knew he had occasionally strayed close to and even over the strict line of the law, but when he turned around and looked at you with guilt-inducing puppy dog eyes like some kind of saint in a woolly jumper, you forgot all that and just felt shame.

It was no wonder really that his sister hated him. Growing up with a perfect brother, who you knew wasn’t perfect, but no one else was willing to agree with you, must have been comparable to Dante’s seventh circle. As far as Harriet was concerned, John hadn’t even had the grace to be shocked/offended/affronted/angry/etc when she’d come out as gay, but had been completely accepting and tried to introduce her to several Female Doms he thought she’d like. This meant Harry couldn’t even complain that her family had turned her out because of her sexuality, completely ruining the sob story she had been working up to.

That had been  an awkward argument to be caught at the bottom of the steps up to 221B for and eventually when the screaming showed no signs of abating Greg and Sherlock had decided maybe they could follow up a few more leads _without_ John, who would hopefully be finished his fight with his sister by then.

Maybe that was why John worked so well with Sherlock who was unintentionally and deliberately oblivious, ignorant, belligerent and stubborn. Submissive Sherlock may have been, but he did not back down to John’s guilt trips merely because they occurred. Half the time he didn’t even notice them.

Hearing the toaster Greg pushed off the wall and dumped his armload in the machine. He wasn’t quite feeling up to measuring out quantities of detergent so he threw a couple of scoops in and declared things done. He wasn’t that fussy even without a headache and there was no reason to start when he had one, though the second round of painkillers was doing its job. He scraped marmite across the toast, wished for jam without mysterious white spots, and took a bite.

At least it was food? Dry food, so with no juice or milk for tea, he padded over to the cupboard for a glass and the tap for water. He turned the baleful face of his mobile over.

He didn’t want to read it, didn’t want to read the words Mycroft had so carefully chosen to tell Greg he was through with him, that Greg had failed to behave appropriately, had failed to live up to his word and be friends without wanting more, and after such a shameful display... No, he wasn’t ready to hear Mycroft tell him he no longer wanted to be associated with Greg.

Unfortunately, his phone chose that moment to ring, leaving Greg the unpleasant choice of answering and possibly having the issue forced on him or being a coward and letting it ring through to his message bank.

He was an Alpha. That didn’t preclude cowardice, but it certainly made the idea a lot harder to digest.

Fine. He would at least check the caller ID and if it was Mycroft... well, he’d deal with that then. Embarrassingly Greg realised he was holding his breath as he turned the electronic device over.

Sherlock Holmes

Oh thank Christ. With an exhale Greg picked up the call to find out exactly how many cases it was going to take to keep his secret.

“Sherlock.”

“Ah, Lestrade, you’re finally conscious.”

Greg winced. “Ah, yeah, look um, thanks, for ... you know, the bowl and the water and-”

“The toothbrush and the heat. Yes, yes you’re quite welcome.”

There was a beat of silence as Greg shuffled his feet, glad Sherlock couldn’t see him. The thought that Sherlock had seen him in such a state...

“How did we-” “Has my-”

They both stopped.

Right, yes.

“Sorry, you were saying?” Greg took another bite of toast.

“Has my brother called you today?”

Greg coughed and spluttered as the toast suddenly became a Bad Idea and tried to go down the wrong way.

“Sorry?” He eventually gasped out.

“Has Mycroft called you today?” Sherlock’s voice was very tight over the phone.

“Um, no,” There was a muffled curse from the other end of the line, “but,” Greg hurried on before Sherlock started yelling, “there is a text from him... if that’s a good thing?”

“A text?” Sherlock sounded suspicious.

“Yeah, a text. I, uh, haven’t read it yet. Look if this is about last night, cause I really, really would prefer he never found out about that.”

“No, this is not about _last night_ , which you clearly have no or only a limited memory of.”

“Uh, yeah, listen, I didn’t do... anything did I?”

“Anything?”

“Anything...stupid.” Greg winced even as he asked the question.

“You attempted to work your way into the advanced stages of alcohol poisoning by imbuing vast quantities of a substandard spirit, had a complete _emotional_ ,” definite verbal disdain flavoured that word, “breakdown and spent a substantial amount of time crying on my shoulder, so do not continue to be an idiot and ask obvious questions – you were drunk. Of course you did stupid things, the most idiotic of which was getting yourself into that state to begin with.”

Greg hung his head in his hand, other forced to keep holding the phone. Christ why had he ever...

“I have your credit card. You may collect it when I am sure you will not abuse it in such a worthless and unoriginal fashion again.”

“Thanks.” Sherlock’s voice was brisk and business like, while Greg’s was flavoured with mortification of the highest level.

There was a brief moment of breathing.

“You’re embarrassed.” Not a question, not from Sherlock. “There is no need to be. Your actions were less than intelligent as befits most of the populations, though unusual for you, but they were... understandable.”

Greg slipped down slightly in his chair and didn’t say anything.

“Lestrade,” Sherlock hesitated before ploughing on, “you have seen me in less than savoury states on no few occasions and I believe it appropriate and not worthy of shame that I was there to help you. Certainly I have been worse.”

Now that was certainly true. It had been more than half a decade since Greg had last walked in on Sherlock’s drug battered body in an alleyway, his flat, Greg’s flat, or any other possible location, and no small number of those scenes had been rather disgusting in nature. Some of them had been downright terrifying, like when he’d arrived just in time to catch the final spasms of Sherlock’s body as he overdosed and had to perform CPR while waiting for an ambulance, praying the whole time that Sherlock would live to annoy him another day.

That had happened twice. A third time and Greg had sworn to Sherlock he’d check him into rehab himself and arrest him if he snuck out again, as he had every time Mycroft had committed him. He’d also sworn there would be no more cases until he was clean.

There was no third time.

From drugs, anyway.

If the majority of scenes during Sherlock’s drug addict days had been horrid for the squalor, the vomit and the blood, the ones during his detox were worse. Not only did Sherlock vomit everywhere, often too weak to make it to the bathroom or kitchen when a fit came upon him, but there was a much greater emotional toll as Greg watched him lose non-existent weight, develop dark circles because he couldn’t sleep, and grow fragile in a way he had never appeared even during the midst of an overdose. It had been scary to realise how much he cared for Sherlock at that time, watching him fade to nothing, voice too hoarse from screaming to speak, eyes too dead to live.

Greg never found out exactly what Sherlock had been injecting, but it became quite obvious quite fast that it had been a lot more than just cocaine and heroin like he’d thought. The last straw had been coming home to find Sherlock on Greg’s floor, eyes wide and unseeing, jaw slack, barely breathing, pulse fluttering wildly and then disappearing before lurching back for a couple more arrhythmic beats.

Greg checked Sherlock into rehab himself as soon as he was released from hospital, fully expecting him to never speak to Greg again given his hostile reaction to similar attempts by Mycroft, but knowing that whatever Sherlock had addicted himself to it required medical supervision as it left his body.

Six months later Sherlock Holmes had swanned onto his crime scene, called all his team idiots, ousted Sally and Anderson’s affair, and located a murderer hiding in the attic before strutting off without a word actually addressed directly to Greg, but a new address slipped into his wallet when Greg wasn’t looking.

It had never been mentioned again.

Until now.

“Well, yeah, true, and thank you for-”

“Lestrade, cease with the awkward apologies and thank me by never orchestrating such a tedious set of circumstances again.”

Greg’s lips twitched in a small smile. He’d said something similar to Sherlock after receiving a sarcastic Sherlockian expression of gratitude in the form of “I suppose I’m meant to say thank you” when Sherlock woke up from his first overdose after meeting Greg.

Like Sherlock at the time he didn’t respond with a promise or even an agreement to do so, something Sherlock would undoubtedly have noticed. Tonight he’d just do it at home instead – cheaper and he could pass out anywhere without worry.

“Mycroft’s text.” Sherlock broke through Greg’s musing recollections. “If it’s not a request to meet and talk, go and do so anyway.”

Greg snorted.

“I’m serious, Greg.”

Greg paused halfway through opening his mouth to make a sarcastic comment. Apparently Sherlock really was serious.

“And if he doesn’t tell you, call me.”

“Tell me what?” Greg asked confused.

Sherlock’s reply was a beat off, lagging behind the pace of the conversation as it he wanted to say something else, but was sticking to a predetermined script. “If he tells you, you’ll know.”

The dial tone sounded in Greg’s ear as Sherlock disconnected the call literally as he finished annunciating the final syllables.

Tell him what?

Did he want to know?

Unfortunately that question could only be answered by finding out.

He procrastinated a bit longer, finishing his toast, moving the laundry to the dryer, cleaning out the fridge, all under the guise of dealing with essential household chores he’d been neglecting for too long, but had to concede when he found himself contemplating scrubbing the bathroom grout that it really was just a delaying tactic, and once he’d been forced to acknowledge that his Alpha pride wouldn’t let him avoid it any longer.

The phone was a familiar, comfortable weight in his hand. It was an old model, one he’d owned for years. Serviceable, but outdated. Just like him.

1 new text message from Mycroft Holmes

Greg took a steadying breath and prepared to have his heart ripped out.

_Gregory, would it be possible to have a moment of your time this afternoon? Whenever is convenient. ~ MH_

‘Well,’ Greg chided himself, ‘you read it and the world hasn’t ended. Maybe it’s time to remember that everything Mycroft Holmes does is not about you.’

But what did Mycroft want? What _could_ Mycroft want? Had Sherlock done something? No, that didn’t fit with _Sherlock_ saying he needed to talk to Mycroft. A case or something to do with the Yard? No, surely Mycroft would say. Unless he wanted to discuss Greg’s position at the Yard, offer to help him keep it out of an obliged sense of friendship? Except Mycroft didn’t usually ask first; it was his trait, whether personality or dynamic based, that angered Sherlock the most.

Greg chewed his lip in thought. The only thing he could think was that Mycroft was ready to Talk, but that didn’t fit in with Sherlock’s insistence of a _thing_ Greg had to find out.

_Is an hour too late? GL_

He had never used to sign his initials on his texts. It was something he’d picked up from the Holmeses.

_An hour is acceptable ~MH_

That was a quick response even for Mycroft. He must have been sitting there holding his phone. Was that good or bad?

An hour.

He wondered back to the bathroom, deep in thought, and was halfway through soaping his body before he realised what he was doing and that it was his third shower for the day. He finished soaping himself anyway.

Back in the bedroom he pulled on pants and jeans. Not the tight black ones gathering dust at the back of his wardrobe that almost ended up in the fire after the last time he’d worn them, but some perfectly serviceable dark blue ones he’d bought to replace them. A plain white shirt followed and he reluctantly turned to face the free standing mirror.

He’d grown out of the obsessive need to primp and pose that afflicted teenagers, Alpha teenagers in particular, years ago, but had left the mirror, a remnant of Josephine’s presence, because he’d discovered how useful it was to be able to check his suit jacket didn’t have anything down the back, that there weren’t rips or tears or stains from scenes, and yes, that the colours didn’t clash.

He had to pull a jacket, discarded casually on purpose so it fell over the mirror’s face, off to see. Even with his clothes on his mind’s eye provided a detailed view of the red lines, love bites, and faint bruises across his skin. They had long faded away and healed without even the faintest of scars, though a dark corner of Greg’s heart had hoped they would stay. It would have created even greater problems in his life, to be carrying a Sub’s scars, but he would have worn them gladly, a constant reminder of the precious Omega who had put them there.

Greg forced the thoughts back into the shadowy parts of his heart and mind. If he was going to meet Mycroft the last things he could be thinking about were marks and claims he had no right to or chance of.

He didn’t need physical reminders to see them. He’d never be able to forget.

Right, clothing, the reason he was standing here. Jeans – nice, not to nice; new, not too new; casual, dressy enough to look decent. Shirt – flattering, but plain; collared, but not formal without a suit; classy, but not like he was trying.

Greg sighed and let the jacket fall back to cover the mirror. Evaluating his clothing choice to ensure he didn’t look too good lest he be mistaken for trying to impress Mycroft, rather than just not look like a bum next to him, was a new addition to his Thursday routine on the days he made it home from the office to change before meeting.

Running a hand along his jaw, Greg decided shaving wouldn’t be over the top.

The laundry, sheets, shirts, socks and underwear, was thrown haphazardly onto the bed in a bundle and Greg rooted through for matching socks. Black and navy? Close enough. He’d learnt that his socks really were irrelevant last time.

Boots, maroon jumper, taking care to tuck the collar tabs under the neck, and a black overcoat later and Greg turned the key in the lock and started walking. 40 mins. Maybe he’d better get a taxi.

The ride to Mycroft’s house was spent trying not to over imagine the situation. He had no evidence he was riding towards something good or bad. There wasn’t even evidence that this was something. There was every chance that this was nothing more than it used to be, friends with nothing better to do meeting up to do something.

Mostly that had been movie nights as Greg forced the banality of pop culture down Mycroft’s throat over Chinese, Indian or pizza. Occasionally the subject matter had been more refined – foreign films in foreign languages that Mycroft appeared to speak, but Greg had to read the subtitles for over bottles of expensive wine and five star takeaway from restaurants that didn’t usually do takeaway, but made an exception for Mycroft Holmes. They’d hardly ended up cuddling on the couch or anything even close, both of them still in denial that maybe there was anything more there than friendship, but by the end of the second bottle when Mycroft had undone his tie and opened his shirt collar, toed off his shoes, and was sitting cross legged with toes intermittently bumping Greg’s as they talked, the evenings had always acquired a much more priceless intimacy than anything so obvious and vulgar could ever have done.

Or they’d walk. Once Mycroft had kidnapped Greg, kidnapped as he’d had no warning and had been meant to meet an attractive Sub for a dinner date set up by a friend at said friend’s insistence, and they’d spent the evening in sole occupation of the London Zoo. Then there was the opera, or theatre, or dancing – proper dancing: swing, rock and ballroom where Mycroft looked so graceful and Greg attempted to not fall over his own feet as he tried copy Mycroft and lead his partner around the dance floor - or Karaoke, or cooking or so many other things.

Greg wanted to believe so much that that was all that this was, but he couldn’t, not when they hadn’t ‘hung out’ and done things just for laughs and making each other smile in months. Not knowing that none of those things had ever happened at Mycroft’s house where he was headed now.

He started playing games with the licence plates instead, creating words and phrases using the letters as acronyms. Anything, anything at all, to drag his mind away from his thoughts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like I said, not the worst place you could have stopped it. I'll post another chapter on Wednesday for you. x


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wednesday!
> 
> I'm going to dedicate this one to sesquipedal_gil for catching something no one else had so far, Beta included. Good eyes!
> 
> If you've been finding the chapters so far particularly moving, you might want to be prepared for this one as this was the one I was actually trying to make people feel...
> 
> Warnings: discussions of abortions from both sides (pro and against)

Mycroft’s street was quiet as the taxi pulled up at the front door. Greg suspected it was always quiet. It was probably chock full of ‘minor government officials’ or at the very least upper class families of five – two parents, two children and the nanny. There were no little old ladies twitching curtains here, but he was sure that the gossip flew just as thick and fast. What had they thought of his display last time he was here? It was too much to hope they’d all fortuitously been occupied elsewhere for the evening.

Luckily he had just enough cash in his wallet to cover the taxi, though the driver undoubtedly left thinking Greg was the most miserly tipper ever to alight at this street. Though he doubted many people actually caught taxis here. This was the kind of street where everyone had drivers.

The steps loomed threateningly to the front door, three small rises that seemed like Everest. Not that he had a choice at this stage. It was climb or watch what was left of his relationship with Mycroft die. Unfortunately, he had no guarantee climbing wouldn’t produce the same result.

He hadn’t noticed the knocker last time, in his alcohol induced then chemically altered panic. A lion’s head. Of course, what else would be appropriate? He let it fall three times against the door in quick succession before pausing to wonder how long he was meant to wait before knocking again. The question became moot when the door opened, reverberations from the third thud against the metal door stud still lingering in the air.

It was not quite who Greg was expecting. Certainly there was at least a foot, more like a foot and a half, between the Omega he had anticipated and the woman who opened the door. She had grey hair too, which Mycroft certainly hadn’t had come in yet.

He hid it well if it had.

She was slightly plump in that way that women of a certain age tended to become, and dressed in an entirely outdated black dress. If she’d been wearing a little white cap and apron Greg would have had to laugh, because even without them she just _looked_ like a servant. Her blue eyes twinkled when he met them and he suddenly suspected that it wasn’t Mycroft who had selected his housekeeper’s ‘uniform’.

“Detective Inspector Lestrade I presume?” Her voice was a low, comforting alto, the kind of voice that had crooned to young children and animals alike in wild weather and fever dreams. “I’ve been expecting you. He’s through in the kitchen, poor boy, obviously has a lot on his mind. Just the same as when he was a child, you know. Whenever he needed to think he’d be underfoot in the kitchen, huddled at the table or in a corner. Would stay there for days at a time if you let him. Of course, this meant Master Sherlock used to give him so much grief about over eating. It’s not like Master Sherlock was any different, of course, but then he always ran out and hid when he needed to mull things over. Needed space, poor little mite, unable to get his thoughts to quiet down.”

They were halfway down the corridor and she was still going a mile a minute. Greg wasn’t sure she was breathing in and around her words.

“It is so nice to actually meet you. We have heard so much about you up at the Estate.”

“Really?” Greg’s ears pricked up hopefully. That was good, right?

“Oh yes, Master Sherlock talks about his cases all the time when he’s forced back, mostly over dinner to be ornery, but then that’s him isn’t it? We really are so grateful that you let him help out. It’s made such a difference to his life.”

Oh, Master Sherlock, not Master Mycroft.

Right.

The old lady paused just a few steps away from the kitchen. “But then, Master Mycroft never did talk about things that were important to him. Always kept his cards close to his chest in case someone tried to take them away. Such a serious child and such a serious adult.” Her voice was low and secretive and she patted his arm conspiratorially. “Now in you go, young Alpha.”

Greg was gently pushed through the kitchen door, opened for him by his guide.

Mycroft was seated at the kitchen table, impeccably dressed, as usual, in a black suit including his jacket. For once it wasn’t a matching three piece; his vest was a startling shade of green. The silk dress shirt was a soft grey colour almost, but not quite, white that prevented Mycroft appearing vampiric, though he did look very stern and imposing even though he’d forgone a tie. The collar on the shirt was so stiffly starched it sat practically up around his ears. He wasn’t watching the door, or the table which was host to a solitary cup of untouched tea.

With a frustrated cluck the servant (nanny, housekeeper, cook?) bustled over to the table. “Master Mycroft, you must eat, honestly dear. He’s always like this when he’s thinking; this is the fourth cup.”

The contents of the cup were poured down the sink and the delicate china rinsed out. A kettle was filled and Greg was amused to note that in addition to his electric kettle Mycroft apparently owned one of the old fashioned stove top variety, and this was apparently the implement of choice for-

“Mrs Potts, dear. Yes, I could see you wondering. I’m the housekeeper.”

Greg couldn’t resist smirking at Mycroft. He’d just known the Omega had a housekeeper. The smirk died when Mycroft didn’t even look at him. In fact, Mycroft hadn’t moved since Gregory walked in.

“Tea, dear?”

“Oh, yes please?”

Mrs Potts had already set out two cups, he noted, so apparently his response wasn’t truly required.

“Only herbal in, I’m afraid. Peppermint or chamomile?”

Herbal tea?

“Um, peppermint if that’s convenient?”

“Oh of course it is dear. I’m afraid it’s only out of a little bag. I haven’t had time to identify some loose leaf worth drinking, so it’s just what I found at the shops.”

“That’s quite alright.” Greg reassured her, still standing awkwardly in the doorway.

He wasn’t quite sure what to do. Did he sit at the table with Mycroft or help with the tea? The situation would be much simpler if Mycroft would even acknowledge his presence, but he didn’t, still starting at something in midair no one else could see.

Greg sighed internally having seen Sherlock go into these mental ‘fits’, as he and John had called them, before. It sometimes took hours, once a day, for him to resurface from his mind palace and it was unlikely Mycroft would be any different. So why exactly was he here?

Mrs Potts continued her lively chatter covering such important and noteworthy topics as London’s dreary weather, the benefits of the countryside, especially for children, and Mrs Turner’s new tea cosy. Mrs Potts then apparently knew Mrs Hudson. It didn’t surprise Greg that they’d be friends: One had survived Sherlock’s childhood; the other was now trying to gracefully survive his adulthood. He could just picture them sitting at a table eating scones with jam and clotted cream gossiping about what the youngest Holmes brother done now.

“Here you are dearies.” The tray with two steaming cups of tea and a small selection of biscuits was placed firmly on the centre of the table. “Now, I’ll be off. Make sure you eat something healthy for dinner now, Sir. Lots of vitamins and stay away from anything artificial. All those chemicals! They’re not good for either of you. It was very nice to meet you, Detective Inspector. Ta ta.”

She bustled out of the room and the front door closed briskly behind her only a few seconds later.

“Do sit down Gregory.” Mycroft’s voice had a slight rustiness to it, as if he hadn’t spoken all day.

Greg lowered himself warily into a chair, still very much on guard. Mycroft didn’t move. More for something to do than anything else he slid the teacup closest to him over and inhaled the delicate mint scent.

“Peppermint?”

“They insisted and the matter was taken out of my control. For now.”

Well that answered nothing. All that did was make Greg wonder who ‘they’ were.

“So, she, Mrs Potts, is your housekeeper then?”

“She is the housekeeper out at the Estate.”

“The Estate.”

“The Holmes Estate, yes. She insists on coming down weekly to check up on me.”

Greg twisted around and peered at the front door. “So, she’s” he pointed uselessly at the door, “going back out to the country somewhere? At this time?”

“Indeed.” For the first time since Greg arrived Mycroft moved, rearranging his weight to sit forward in his chair and uncrossing his legs. He also moved his tea cup closer. “Due to the late hour and her extended stay I was able to prevail upon her to take the car and driver rather than the train as is her custom.” He grimaced into his tea cup, still not raising his eyes to meet Greg’s.

“So she checks on you, but not Sherlock?” It was only a small glimpse into Mycroft’s life, but it was a glimpse and right now it was keeping awkward silence at bay.

“Sherlock is Bonded.” The ‘and his welfare is now his Alpha Dominant’s responsibility’ was not said.

Apparently that was the end of that.

Greg frowned into his tea. Bit of an old fashioned mentality. He would have thought with two Omega sons, and especially given Mycroft’s rather unique position, the Holmes family might have been a bit more progressive. It seemed not.

Unable to take another sip of tea and fake enjoyment, Greg had to ask. “Seriously, what’s with this herbal stuff?”

Mycroft gave a very large, over exaggerated sigh. “I have been informed it is more appropriate under the circumstances and that this justified raiding my kitchen to remove everything else.”

Right, because that made as much sense as the last answer Greg had had on the subject.

“Any chance of coffee?” Coffee might help with the lingering after effects of his hangover. The latest round of painkillers was beginning to wear off.

“I am afraid coffee suffered the same fate as the tea, _and_ my alcohol cabinet, and any processed food left languishing in the cupboard or refrigerator, which is full instead with leafy green vegetables, full of iron, mushrooms, full of folate, and legumes.” Mycroft scowled into his tea. “I am not fond of legumes.”

“Right.” Greg’s head was spinning with total and utter bewilderment. He had the feeling he was missing something and that that something would make this whole conversation make a lot more sense. “At least it smells nice?”

Mycroft grunted. If Greg didn’t know better he would say Mycroft was sulking, except Mycroft Holmes would never, ever, indulge in such ‘infantile behaviour’ as he frequently referred to it whenever Sherlock chose to do so.

They sat there a while, Greg fiddling with his tea cup, Mycroft drinking his like some kind of duty.

“Mycroft, why am I here?” Greg put the tea cup on its china saucer with a delicate but audible chink.

He would not sit around in strained silence just because Mycroft willed it so. He’d more than pushed his Alpha sensibilities lately with what he’d been putting up with, and maybe it was just the humiliation of Sherlock witnessing his breakdown, but he was too raw and his pride too hurt to sit through Mycroft’s power plays tonight. If all Mycroft wanted to do was rub their growing separation in Greg’s face, well, Greg had an appointment with several bottles of vodka he needed to keep.

Okay, and maybe he was just _slightly_ bitter about whatever she was calling herself now.

At Greg’s question Mycroft finally brought his gaze to Greg’s face. “Maybe I just wished the pleasure of your company, Gregory.”

Greg had to hand it to the Omega, he certainly sounded genuine, but that didn’t keep the disbelieving snort unvoiced in his mind or the incredulous tone out of his voice. “Really?”

Mycroft frowned. “Is it that hard to believe? We used to do this regularly.”

“Yes, Mycroft, used to. You can’t honestly believe things are how they used to be.”

There was an acknowledging muscle twitch in Mycroft’s right cheek. His gaze focused on a point over Greg’s left shoulder. “If you are uncomfortable in my presence and no longer wish to spent time together, I completely understand.”

“If I, Jesus Mycroft, I’m not the one who’s been pulling out here.”

Honestly, Mycroft was meant to be the Holmes _good_ at relating to other humans. It made Greg despair for Sherlock, though he was beginning to suspect Mycroft was just as clueless and isolated, but merely bothered to put in the effort, i.e. some, to hide it.

“You understand the requirements of a demanding profession. I have merely been ensuring my life is in line with on-going lifestyle requirements as dictated by my career path and preventing incompatible -“

“Mycroft,” Greg interrupted, “you can’t have a romantic relationship with me. You don’t _want_ to have a romantic relationship with me. I get it, but does that really prevent us being friends? It didn’t before.”

“We are friends.” Mycroft sounded defensive.

Greg sighed. “Not lately. Not really, though we’ve certainly avoided that discussion, and look, really, I do get it. You don’t feel the same about me as I do about you, that’s fine, but you’ve been shutting me out, and I understand it’s an instinctive reaction, but you can’t deny things have been strained.”

“They’ve merely been returning to normal.”

Greg shook his head. “This is the first time we’ve spoken about this.”

“And this discussion is normal?” Mycroft had obviously perfected his patronising and sarcastic tone. No surprises there.

“Yes, Mycroft, after you have” very hot, very passionate, life changing, “sex with your friend it is quite normal to talk about it.” Greg’s hand slammed into the table. “I mean, fuck, you seriously think _this_ is normal, this is _us_?”

Mycroft’s tongue darted out over his lips. “I think our relationship would function optimally at this level, yes.” Every word sounded crisp, precise, and deliberately chosen.

“Like this? So, not actually friends, just someone to report on your brother?”

“Gregory-”

“No, right, fine, I get it.” Greg held his palm up in the universal defensive gesture to stop. “Obviously that’s easy enough for you given how little being friends actually meant to you anyway.” Definitely still bitter about her. “I’ll just not expect anything and stop bothering you shall I?”

“Gregory-” Mycroft stopped, and closed his mouth.

Greg waited, waiting to hear Mycroft say that wasn’t what he meant, wasn’t what he wanted.

Mycroft nodded tersely and wrapped his fingers around the delicate tea vessel as if it were a much sturdier mug, face entirely and deliberately blank.

“Right, well I saw Sherlock last night, he’s fine, still clean and still head over heels for John and completely in love with his collar. Now that I’ve reported, _Sir_ , I’ll just show myself-”

“Please sit down, Gregory.”

Greg stopped halfway out of his chair. A request, not an order. No Dominance. Slowly he sat back on the seat, waiting to hear what Mycroft had to say.

“I am not saying I do not find your company pleasant or that I do not wish to be friends.” Mycroft’s eyes were steady, gaze held fast with his. Greg found himself leaning across the table slightly towards him.

Friends – he could do friends. Anything to keep this remarkable person in his life. If Mycroft needed him to be less familiar then he could do that. He’d do anything for –

Greg jerked back. What the hell?

Mycroft gave him a confused look while Greg scrambled to pull himself back together. Bloody hell, no wonder Mycroft was so good as the British Government. He could Dom someone with his fucking eyes! Or was Greg just that desperate for Mycroft, who certainly seemed to be regarding Greg with complete and genuine bewilderment.

“Gregory?”

“It’s nothing, ignore it.” The words were perhaps slightly sharper than they should be, but Greg was feeling caged and defensive.

“Indeed.”

“Why am I here, Mycroft?” Suddenly Greg wanted to go, get out where he could breathe. “Really here? Cause you haven’t wanted to talk before.”

Mycroft opened his mouth and closed it without a word, eyes straying away from Greg and back to the air in front of the cabinets.

“Fine.” Greg stood. “Call me when you’re actually ready to have this conversation. Or don’t, whatever. I’ll see you Thursday for your weekly report. Should I expect a power station or a car park?”

The last question was only mostly rhetorical as Greg pushed his chair and moved towards the door.

“Gregory-”

“What, Mycroft?” He spun around, not even trying to hide how displeased he was. “What do you want to say? Because I am not going to sit here and listen to platitudes about how it’ll be all fine.” Not when the alcohol that would make it all fine was at his house. “I will do anything for you, you know that, so if you want to be friends, we’ll be friends. You want to be more, we’ll be more. You want a business arrangement to inform on your brother, fine, we’ll have that, but stop lying to yourself and me that that means we’re friends.”

He drew himself up. “Now unless you actually have anything to say I have been sober for too long today and have plans to fix that.”

He hadn’t meant to say the last bit, but he was frustrated, his headache was coming back through and it would do Mycroft good to appreciate exactly how serious Greg was about this. Mycroft looked pained, which stirred a protective need in Greg’s Alpha soul, but he pushed it back with all his other feelings and thoughts about Mycroft. Mycroft was not his to protect.

“Please sit.”

“Why?” Greg knew he was being belligerent, but months of frustration were boiling to the forefront faster than he could stop them.

“Please, you will want to be seated.”

With a slight growl and a ramrod straight back Greg sat again.

Mycroft swallowed and looked... uncertain? The sight threw Greg a bit. Uncertainty was not an expression he typically associated with Mycroft Holmes.

“It has come to my attention that circumstances are not what I would have preferred them to be and that measures will have to be taken to correct them.”

Greg reached his hand to the back of the chair in preparation to push off again and walk out the door.

“I...” Mycroft Holmes lost for words.

Greg let his hand fall as it sunk in that whatever Mycroft was wrestling with was Big. Given Mycroft’s entire world revolved around Big and running and coordinating Big, it was worrying. That probably meant they were dealing with Gigantic.

Greg wasn’t sure what would qualify as Gigantic. The thought scared him.

“The situation has been temporarily been taken out of my hands, but I will be taking measures to correct this and bring circumstances back in line with plans.”

Clear as mud.

“However, I have been... informed at volume,” someone had dared shout at Mycroft? Were they still alive? “That all parties who believe they might in some way have some connection to the situation need to be informed before any measures are taken to correct it.”

Mycroft looked up from his tea cup, meeting Greg’s eyes. A small look of wary frustration crossed his face that Greg was sure resulted from the bewilderment on Greg’s. What was Mycroft talking about? Was the UK about to blow up, some kind of nuclear attack? What was going on? Why was _he_ here?

Mycroft drew his bottom lip into his mouth, chewing slightly in what seemed to be nerves.

“Mycroft, I’m sorry I don’t-”

Mycroft sighed and his eyes dropped to the tea cup. “This is not a situation I have dealt with before, Gregory, and if I am to be honest, it is one that had the choice been mine I would not be dealing with. That decision was rather forced upon me by other people. I am on leave until it is resolved.”

Greg frowned and leaned back in his chair, trying to work out what Mycroft was going on about. If Mycroft was on leave, then this was definitely not work related, which made things infinitely more complicated and worrying.

“Are these the same people who mysteriously stole all the decent drink stuffs from your kitchen?” When in doubt, humour usually eased the way.

“All the caffeinated drinks, yes.” Mycroft nodded.

Or not.

Greg noticed that his stomach had curled in tight and for some reason his body was tense and vibrating.

“Everything caffeinated.”

“Yes.”

“And all the alcohol?” Something was teasing around the edges of Greg’s brain.

“Yes.”

“And you’re on leave?”

“Yes.”

Mycroft sending a very penetrating stare somewhere over Greg’s shoulder. Greg’s hands felt clammy and he wiped them on his jeans.

 _If he tells you, you’ll know_.

Mycroft was trying to tell him something. Something big. The pieces teased hovering outside Greg’s grasp, not enough of them and not close enough to make a picture though a haunting image was there hidden from his eyes. He wasn’t sure if he couldn’t see it because it wasn’t clear, or because on some level he was too scared to.

He licked his lips. “What did she mean when she said not good for either of you?”

She’d meant Greg and Mycroft, of course, but there was something and he couldn’t quite get there.

Mycroft didn’t answer.

“Was she talking about me?”

“No.”

No.

The world felt like it was splintering around him and suddenly Greg had to prove to himself that the land was still solid. The question was stupid, he knew the question was stupid, knew the answer would be no, but he had to ask, had to _prove_ that that was the case because the idea was ridiculous and he didn’t even know where it was coming from other than his gut.

“You’re, you’re-” He swallowed. “You’re pregnant?”

Mycroft’s gaze was steadily not looking at him. “Yes.”

Greg’s fingertips attempted to dig into the table top for purchase.

“Is it mine?”

Mycroft broke his staring match at the wall to send a disgusted look Greg’s way. “I’ve hardly succumbed to an Estrus cycle since.”

His baby. Mycroft was pregnant with _his baby_.

A roar of noise cascaded over him and his vision went black. He didn’t know whether he was standing or sitting because he’d lost his sense of touch, and gravity seemed to be similarly missing. He didn’t feel like he was floating, but he wasn’t connected to anything and the black washed over and over and around him. He didn’t know what he was doing, but he must have been doing something because he wasn’t sitting still. Was he? He didn’t know.

“Gregory, **control yourself**.”

An order. An order loaded with Dominance that forced the world back into place whether Greg wanted it there or not. He slowly lifted his head to find himself slumped against the table, chair overturned somewhere near the door, hand in a cooling puddle of tea. It took a few minutes to get his throat and mouth to work correctly.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Mycroft gave him a wary look.

Greg shook his head as he stood up straight, trying to clear it. “What did I...?”

“I had been informed that Alphas tended to react strongly to being informed about progeny, but I hadn’t realised the reaction would be quite so intense. You seemed to lose yourself quite completely.”

“Um, yeah, yeah, I was... I don’t know.” Greg fetched his chair back and sat on it, keeping the table between them as he tried to wrap his mind around this.

Mycroft was pregnant. Mycroft was pregnant with his child. He was going to be a father, a father to a gorgeous little bundle of intelligence. Of course the baby would be intelligent. How could it be otherwise with Mycroft as a parent? Their own little Alpha or Omega. He only hoped for the baby’s sake that it had a conventional dynamic to go with its gender. He wouldn’t wish the complicated life he’d had to lead on any little mite.

He should have expected this. Greg knew that the chances of conception during a Heat were above 90%, but somehow in the last few months between all the worry about what was happening with Mycroft, that had never entered his thoughts.

He was going to have to start cutting back his hours. No more working too late or going in on his days off. Days off would be for the park and football matches now.

“How long have you known?” He knew he had a goofy smile on his face, but it wouldn’t go away no matter how hard he tried to force it down.

“Since last night.”

Last night while Greg had been getting smashed and crying about how his life was over. Well, that chapter of his life was certainly over. Things were going to have to be very different now.

“Who else knows? I mean, your housekeeper obviously.” Who had Mycroft turned to before turning to him? The thought that anyone knew before him hurt a bit, but he knew now. “Oh, and Sherlock.”

Sherlock who had sent him here.

 “Unfortunately, yes,” Mycroft sighed, “and my assistant.”

The smile froze on Greg’s face. Not that it mattered as Mycroft wasn’t looking at him, but still. His assistant? Mycroft had told _her_ before he’d told Greg. Greg was the Sire.

“My doctor, naturally. I have appointments scheduled for the necessary procedures.”

That one Greg could understand, could live with though the smile had fallen completely off his face, he knew. It still stung.

“You told your assistant.” He knew his voice was flat. He knew it was a stupid thing to say, but he couldn’t help it.

“Not quite.” Mycroft shifted his weight slightly. “It would probably be more appropriate to say that she informed me of her suspicions and insisted I take measures to investigate them.”

Oh. Somehow that made Greg feel a lot better. It shouldn’t really, but knowing that Mycroft hadn’t deliberately told her first was relieving.

“She is the one who insisted I take leave to sort through things. I was… less than enthusiastic about the idea.” That Greg could believe. Mycroft would probably drop dead at his desk. He wasn’t going to let a mere pregnancy slow him down. “However, I suppose it’s only a few days and then the issue will be resolved.”

Issue? Resolved?

“I do hate to trouble you about it, but Sherlock,” Of course Sherlock, who else would have shouted at Mycroft, “was most insistent about informing you. More to the point, if I didn’t, he would have and I have no doubt he would have done it in the most inconvenient and thoroughly inappropriate manner possible. The matter need not concern you; plans have already been made to take care of things.”

No, absolutely not. He would put up with a lot of things from Mycroft Holmes, but he would not put up with being forced out of his kid’s life. He would be there for school recitals, and concerts, and science awards, and birthdays, and holidays, and there was nothing that Mycroft could do about it.

“I will not be left out of his life Mycroft. Those plans will all involve me.” Greg drew himself up to his full seated height. Most of Mycroft’s height was in his legs, so seated like this at the table they were much of a muchness, Greg maybe even slightly taller.

He would not let Mycroft keep him from his child.

A strange expression crossed Mycroft’s face, one that Greg couldn’t recognise. The closest he could come was pity, but there was more to it than that, some element of longing and wistfulness.

“That won’t be necessary, Gregory.” Greg went to open his mouth to protest, but Mycroft kept speaking. “I’m sure you can appreciate that given the nature of my profession this is not something that could ever be allowed to become known. Even the slightest whisper of my gender would be disastrous and, well, this is more than a whisper.”  

The coil in Greg’s stomach started to feel oily and unpleasant. Something was wrong here, something was very, very wrong.

“I wouldn’t have brought it to your attention, but Sherlock insisted you be told before I took any actions to secure the fort, so to say.”

The blood was rushing in Greg’s ears and he swallowed nervously. Surely not. Mycroft wasn’t talking about...

“I have an appointment with my doctor tomorrow, which should allow sufficient recovery time before I-”

“Say it.” Greg whispered. It was quiet, but it broke through Mycroft’s endless stream of words and reverberated around the kitchen with barely any effort. “Stop giving me your diplomatic spiel and tell me what you’re going to do to our baby.”

Mycroft’s voice was soft. “It’s not a baby yet. It’s merely cells.”

“Say it.”

Mycroft swallowed convulsively and his fingers twitched on the table, obvious signs of distress. Good, Greg thought viciously, be distressed you _bastard_.

“I’m going to have a termination.”

Even though Greg had suspected, known, what Mycroft was going to say, hearing the words was a kick to the gut. He clutched the table as nausea swamped his body. His baby. His little baby.

“Were you even going to tell me?” Greg choked out.

Mycroft paused. “No.”

“Bastard.” Greg concentrated on short shallow breaths and slowly lengthening them so he didn’t pass out.

“Is the pain of knowing really worth it? You would have been happier ignorant.”

“That’s not your call to make.”

He could see them now, the afternoons in the park. His son looked like Mycroft, tall with gangly limbs he hadn’t grown into and the slight curl in his hair, but the colour was Greg’s. Poor kid’d probably go prematurely grey like Greg had. They were playing with a football while Mycroft sat on a nearby bench and texted top secret plans from his mobile, umbrella beside him even when the sun was out.

“I am sorry, Gregory, but it’s not practical.”

Their baby, their beautiful little boy, wasn’t practical. Greg could feel the tears in his eyes, knew they were only a few seconds from falling down his face. He staggered to a laboured standing position, eyes still on the table, unable to look at Mycroft. One hand made it to his hair and gripped convulsively. Their boy’s hair. Their little baby boy.

He pushed away from the table, needing to get out the door, needing to have space and air to come to grips with two shock announcements one on top of the other.

Mycroft was carrying his child.

Mycroft wasn’t going to be much longer.

The door frame kept him upright as he stumbled, catching himself as his eyes stared at the wall opposite. There were no photographs hanging there. There should be. There should be photographs of Mycroft’s family. Of their son as he grew.

He swung around, not caring that the tears were running down his face. He didn’t know what he was going to say, just that he was going to rage and shout and yell, but at the sight of Mycroft sitting stiffly at the table, all he did was fall on his knees.

“Please Mycroft, please don’t do this.” Mycroft’s gaze moved away from him, staring sideways giving Greg a view of his profile. “Please, I’ll do anything. Anything you want. You don’t want the baby that’s fine, I’ll take him and you never have to see him again. Never, I’ll transfer to... to Glasgow or Cardiff or Cork and you’ll never have to do anything or see us or – Please, Mycroft. I know it won’t be easy, but _please_ , please! I promise, I promise I’ll never breathe a word, I’ll never tell anyone, but please, My, _please_ , not our baby. _Please_ not our baby. My baby.”

Mycroft was still not looking at him, and Greg let out a sob, choked back by a fist in his mouth. No, no, no, no. Mycroft was right, why did he have to say anything. Now Greg would always know, always know that his child had again been denied the world before his existence was even a possibility and every time Greg looked at Sherlock or an Omega he would _know_. He’d never see Mycroft again. Not after this, he couldn’t.

His baby, their baby.

“ _Please_.” He put everything he had into that one word. Everything he wanted, everything he needed; his hopes for his relationship with Mycroft, his knowledge that that couldn’t happen, but that this could. Their baby. Their amazing little baby.

Mycroft still said nothing and Greg folded in half, forearms coming down to rest on the floor as the tears soaked into his jeans. If Mycroft was determined, if he wouldn’t sway, there was nothing that Greg could do to stop him.

He’d lost his best friend, his love, and his child.

For the first time in almost three months, he regretted going to Mycroft’s house that night. For the first time, it would have been better if it had never happened.

“Gregory, I am sorry.” Mycroft’s voice was deliberate and precise, all emotion locked away deep wherever Mycroft Holmes kept his heart. When Greg raised his head he was still staring sideways at the sink. Another sob passed Greg’s lips. He didn’t try to restrain it.

“But you are about to develop a gambling problem.” Mycroft continued.

The words didn’t make sense.

“Or rather, your gambling problem is about to come to light and you will be in some financial difficulty. Quite natural given your normally honest and open nature which will have made you atrocious at the card tables.”

Greg wiped the tears off his face, trying to make sense of Mycroft’s words.

“Sadly this means that you will be in need of other accommodation, your flat being the most valuable asset you have and the quickest way to remove yourself from debt. I do not think anyone will think it strange you prefer not to move into Baker Street, though I do not doubt the offer will be made.” The pace of Mycroft’s words was regular and measured, voice completely restrained and controlled by Mycroft’s indomitable will.

Greg swallowed. Was Mycroft suggesting...? What was he saying? He still hadn’t turned his head to look at Greg.

“You will, however, accept my offer to housesit during one of my many trips overseas given it will provide you withaccommodation while you sort yourself out. Given our long hours, having two Dominants in the same living quarters won’t be too hard to navigate, so your stay will undoubtedly be found useful and extended, especially as I will be required for a series of intense negotiations over the summer months, concluding sometime in September. When I return, the trip clearly having been a ruse to collect a child from an Omega I spent a previous trip with, naturally you will stay in order to help raise the child as neither of us have time to be full time single parents, and you have no children of your own so this will be the closest meaningful substitute.”

Greg’s heart flipped in his chest. Oh God, oh thank you, thank you God.

“Thank you.” He whispered. “Oh Christ, My, thank you so much.”

His gaze stayed trained on the sink, but heat crept into Mycroft’s voice. “In five minutes you will be kneeling naked on my floor, awaiting my pleasure, is that understood?”

If he had been standing, Greg would have fallen over in shock. “You mean, we’re going to, you’re going to give us a-”

“Am I **understood**?”

The Dominance danced over Greg’s skin and he breathed it in, revelling in the sensation. “Yes.”

“Yes what?”

“Yes, Master.”

“ **Go**.”

With one last look at Mycroft’s profile, Greg turned and fled up the stairs. His brain was still trying to work out what had happened, how the evening had gone from an awkward conversation about friendship, to fatherhood and having it ripped away, to not only being given it back, but being given a chance at the relationship he craved.

He pushed open the door to Mycroft’s bedroom. Worry later, think later, for now, there were other things to be getting on with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See, happy note?
> 
> Ish?


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Evening everyone,
> 
> This chapter has to go to rifleman_s for picking out more things I missed first time over. Thank you.
> 
> For all of you who weren't expecting that well... Neither was Mycroft. As such, there will now be a brief insight into his mind. Can't promise you'll come out of it liking him any better, but you'll probably come out with an appreciation for how big a problem Greg is having to fight against. Mycroft has certainly had a number done on his mind, that's for sure.

Mycroft kept his body still as he listened to Gregory’s retreating footsteps thunder up the stairs. He knew he looked calm and composed – a perfect statue of ice with frozen expression revealing nothing.

Frozen was a good word for it, but rather than the cool icy competence he cultivated he felt more akin to a rabbit caught in a hunter’s beam.

What had he just done?

Gregory suspected nothing, Mycroft was sure; was completely unaware of the galloping heart rate, sweaty palms and whirlwind, no, cyclone of thoughts rushing around in his head. He tried to force himself to move, to uncross his legs, face the door, _twitch his finger_ , but despite usually being so competent under pressure and being fully proficient at acting in emergencies, he was well and truly immobilised. No amount of mental yelling or rattling bars could free his conscious mind from its prison. Was this how ordinary people felt when faced with guns or knives or life and death scenarios?

He didn’t like it.

Eventually he managed to slow his panicked breaths into longer inhales and exhales. Eventually he managed to reduce his heart rate to something approximating normal. Eventually he managed to retard his thoughts enough that the rushing noise as they roared past disappeared and the words and other constituent parts could be broken down, thought about and analysed rather than left to swirl around his brain.

As he brought his thoughts under control he wondered whether other people, people other than himself or Sherlock, ever felt like this, as if their brain was racing ahead and thinking all of its own accord and it had to be manually and deliberately tempered to allow interpretation, or were other people not aware, letting their subconscious mind run away and barely scratching the surface of its input?

Finally his finger moved on command and almost instantaneously his body collapsed leaving him curled over in his chair, arms wrapped around his body.

What had he done?

He sat there, ignoring his agitated thoughts now moving at a manageable speed around his mind, refusing for that moment to pluck any out to focus on them. Just staying, absorbing the magnitude of his act.

He needed to move, it had probably been five minutes, but infuriatingly his time sense had collapsed when his body froze and now he couldn’t accurately say whether it had been 30 seconds or an hour. His rise to standing was not graceful and he staggered the couple of steps to the door, his hands falling against the frame just as Gregory’s had only a short time ago.

He had agreed to keep the baby – the parasitical growth that risked his life, his work, and his family’s legacy. It was illogical, totally impractical, and it was dangerous, actually dangerous in the way he strived to avoid with bodyguards who doubled as personal assistants and security codes.

Everything was planned. Dr Koen had been advised of the situation and had consented to perform the highly illegal termination (as he had been expected to. Treating Mycroft was, in general, highly illegal from the suppression medication on.) It was _scheduled_ : nine o’clock tomorrow morning this situation would be _fixed_.

Mycroft’s fingers convulsed on the doorframe. He just wanted things to go back to normal. Normal where he made Gregory laugh and Gregory made him smile without either of them having to question what it meant; where they had fun and Gregory challenged him intellectually in areas he’d never have thought a homicide detective would be able to offer thoughtful comment and critique; where his job was his world only impinged on by Sherlock, and his assistant didn’t cancel appointments with the highest authority in the land because she could. He just wanted things to be as they were, was that too much to ask?

He thrust himself through the doorway. Of course it was. That was wishing, begging fate and trying to change things that couldn’t be changed. He was a Holmes: he edited the past, adjusted the future, and made things happen through acts, not dreams. He was pragmatic and logical and he would not stand here and pray.

The child.

‘Well, you need an heir.’ The pragmatic voice at the back of his head piped up.

Yes, he did-That wasn’t the point! He would have a nephew sooner or later, and Sherlock could be made to see sense. There had been a Holmes in government for centuries. His brother wouldn’t destroy all that for – and besides, even if he _did_ need an heir because it was _unlikely_ that his nephew would be suitable (or available), Gregory was hardly the class of Alpha the Holmes family would consider appropriate for genetic donation and none of that mattered because _this thing_ was going to cause enormous problems and put all his work at risk and he wouldn’t have it.

The stair was a slight shock. He had forgotten he’d been moving.

The political consequences would be disastrous. There would be no way for him to continue in government and all his pipeline and in-progress works would be cancelled, and most of his past progress, completed, over and done with or not, would be undone. England would lose traction on the world stage and the government would suffer a critical blow.

He took a step.

Why had he agreed? It was incomprehensible. He had covered all these grounds, thought through every angle that afternoon and decided it was too dangerous. He wasn’t the only one who would suffer. England would suffer without his guiding hand. It wasn’t arrogance to say this when he knew how many fingers he had in how many pies. He was the only person who knew how many balls were in the air, let alone the pattern required to keep them aloft. Through England he influenced the world, both remnants of the Empire and outside countries and conflicts. Anthea was good, but she was only his assistant, not him, and he had no colleagues. He had peers, many peers in many _single_ , isolated fields, but his role, his position straddling so many areas and so much knowledge and power, was unique.

Without him there to perform his duty, war would be the least of the problems.

‘So you need an heir, someone to carry on after you.’

Yes, _but_ there was Sherlock, he ignored the mental snort, and even if there wasn’t Gregory was not-

‘Who else? Who else could you have? There _is_ no appropriately connected Alpha you could have, that’s why you never married and forwent that avenue of collecting power. You can’t sire children, only carry. Could you trust one of those society climbing Alphas with your secret?’

No, of course not, that’s why he didn’t already have a Mate and an heir.

‘But you would do it? If one of those old family Alphas came to you, you would have your child?’

Of course he would, he needed an –

No.

Mycroft shook his head violently and paused halfway up the stairs. No, he was thinking himself in circles. It would be too risky. The consequences were too high. He’d been over this, he’d decided this already. He’d spent hours on it.

He’d say no. He’d walk straight into his room and tell Gregory he’d changed his mind, that it had been a mistake in a moment of weakness brought about by the intense need to comfort his Submissive, his poor, frightened, anguished Submissive who it was his _job_ to –

No!

Gregory was not his Submissive. Yes, he was _a_ Submissive, but he was not Mycroft’s. It was not Mycroft’s duty to keep him safe, to protect him from the world in exchange for total devotion and trust, trust he had been ripping from Gregory’s soul with his pronouncement despite the fact that it was within his power to keep him whole, and he needed to fix and reassure and –

NO!

No, no, no. Gregory was not his. He’d been over this. Being the father of his child did not give Mycroft anymore claim over Gregory than he’d had before. Gregory was not his.

He could be.

No.

He would walk in and say no. Say no to Gregory, say no to keeping the baby.

‘You’ll lose him.’

Yes, Mycroft knew, had known before saying that Gregory would hate him forever, that Gregory would never have anything to do with him again. It was as much the reason why he wanted to keep it to himself as the distaste at revealing he’d made such a massive mistake. Damn Sherlock for interfering! This could have been sorted so simply, a quick injection, some cramps and nausea, and he could go back to Gregory, maybe even assent to lowering the boundaries he was trying to rebuild until he recovered his emotional balance once the hormones left his system; curl up in Gregory’s presence to mourn what had been lost and lick his metaphorical wounds, without Gregory ever knowing the reason why.

Not anymore.

Now Gregory knew. Now he would lose Gregory, lose him more completely than Mycroft had ever wanted. He had wanted _space_ from Gregory, space to allow things to settle, not for him to go. Not for him to be gone.

He would lose Gregory and the baby.

The baby didn’t matter, he didn’t want the baby, didn’t care about the baby. The baby was a nuisance, a parasite, a blot, a defect in his perfectly functioning life and he wanted it gone and –

He paused at the top of the stairs, right hand clutched tight around the banister, left curled convulsively around his abdomen protecting its precious cargo.

No, he _didn’t want_ the baby. This was hormones, just hormones. He knew this, had been taught in class years ago about the massive influx of hormones triggered by pregnancy to bond Omega and child, a necessity given how infrequently children were the result of happy Bondings and how frequently they were the result of what without the Estrus cycle would be rape.

‘Like yours.’

Yes, like him, though who was raping who would have been up for debate – both so chemically eager; both who would otherwise have said no. This issue was the reason there could still be no rape in the eyes of the law of an Omega in Estrus.

‘But you would have chosen him. Out of everyone, you would have chosen him.’

Mycroft couldn’t deny that, but he would have chosen no one first.

‘You were so relieved when he showed up.’

Of course he had been relieved, he had been desperate for an Alpha’s knot, and to have it be someone he liked, trusted, and who was compatible – at the least it prevented the broken bones that would have accompanied two Dominants in bed for four days. At best, it had the potential to be perfect.

It was perfect.

There was _nothing_ perfect about where he was now. A strangled half-growl, half-whine was dragged out of his throat and he stuffed his right hand into his mouth to bite down on a finger, preferring to let go of his balance point than unwrap the protective arm around his baby.

His baby. It was a foetus, nothing more than cells, barely worthy of a name yet. Brain barely developed, limbs not fully formed, a mere bean shaped thing in amniotic fluid. It only just had fingers, tiny fingers.

‘If you don’t want it, why did you spend two hours creating a plan to keep it, a plan you have now enacted. Why spend all that time if it didn’t mean anything to you?’

Because he’d been planning, that was all. Investigating all possible routes including the one where he got to keep his best friend and his child.

‘And be happy?’

Was his child, his friendship with Gregory, worth the weight of the country? The weight of the world?

Did he want them to be?

Yes, no, maybe, he squeezed his eyes tight shut and concentrated on breathing, pushing all his thoughts away and locking his emotions down tight. Logic: that was the key. Let the thoughts back, keep the emotions away.

No child was worth a war. If Mycroft was uncovered, whether he lived or died (which was an option, especially once he lost his government security) several wars were more probably than not. The Middle East was only one area he was attempting to contain, and though his efforts were not singular, unique or unequalled, he was a major piece on the board and a power imbalance would result from his removal.

But his-

No.

He’d been over this and over this that afternoon.

No.

Just No.

He didn’t even want it anyway (yes he did, no he didn’t, yes he did). He would walk into that room, tell Gregory no, and leave before his Dominant instincts kicked in to protect and reassure his Submissive.

He paused next to the door. Surely it was worth the risk?

No.

Last chance. One more step and he’d be seen. Last chance to say no. Last chance to have everything, or as close to everything as he was capable of.

He stood up tall, drew his shoulders up and back, wiped the stray tear that mysteriously had appeared on his cheek, and with the greatest of effort unglued his left arm from his middle.

He was a Holmes. He would face this like the Dominant he was.

He’d made this choice before, over and over – himself or his duty. It would sting, like it hadn’t done since he was a teenager learning to put aside his hopes and heart, but he would recover and would be thicker skinned than ever. Once the hormones were gone, he wouldn’t even care.

Last chance.

He stepped forward.

Gregory was kneeling in the middle of the carpet, still as a statue despite the extended wait and the havoc the position must have been playing with his knees.

‘Look at him,’ the voice in his head whispered, ‘study the person you are about to destroy.’

Gregory wasn’t young, but then neither was Mycroft, and he wore his years well. His hair had completely changed colour, but the silver, not grey, never as dull as grey, only added character, wisdom and distinction, not age. Muscles were still firm and defined under his skin, even if a slight middle age pudge had made its way around Gregory’s middle. The skin was drawn and slightly slack, evidence of recent weight loss. Mycroft’s heart, traitorous organ, performed a regretful triple beat out of time. Sherlock had been right, Gregory hadn’t been eating well.

He drew his eyes up to Gregory’s face, refusing to go lower and tempt himself even if it was the cowardly thing to do. Gregory was watching him, brown eyes large, expressive and cloaked.

“I was starting to wonder if you were coming.” There was nothing in his voice Mycroft could discern to prove hope, disappointment, resignation or judgement, which just proved how unsettled he still was. Gregory was nothing if not expressive.

He had to tell him, had to open his mouth and watch, cause, a heart, a heart that unlike his own may have been bruised and repressed, but never denied, never that, break. It would be worse now because Gregory believed him, took him at his word with so little proof of intent, and now...

Gregory’s arms were behind his back, wrists together in total surrender, even though he wasn’t tied, even though Mycroft hadn’t been here to dictate a pose. With a bit of training he could be-

He was just so-

He had even, Mycroft belatedly noticed, knowing Mycroft’s preference for neatness, taken the time to fold his clothes.

He was going to lose him.

With three quick strides Mycroft crossed the floor and sank to his knees in front of Gregory, capturing his lips in a burning kiss.

He would never do this again. He was only just willing to admit that his body, for whatever reason, wanted to and he would never have the opportunity again. He would never _see_ him again.

Gregory kept his hands clasped behind his back, but that didn’t stop him returning the kiss tenfold. His tongue was twining with Mycroft’s in a way that never quite seemed like surrender, even when Mycroft thrust deep into Gregory’s mouth in complete control of their actions. He let out a delightful little groan as Mycroft drew back, dragged his teeth along his lips before forcing his tongue past yielding lips to continue mapping the inside of Gregory’s mouth.

Mycroft’s fingers were buried as deep in Gregory’s short hair as they could be. Gregory would have to let it grow longer in the future so he could get a proper grip.

One of his hands manoeuvred Gregory’s head exposing his throat. Mycroft started up at his ear, drawing the earlobe gently between his teeth, before slowly nipping and biting down the proffered expanse to the tune of Gregory’s muffled whimpers and breathy sighs, reacquainting himself with skin he knew he had previously marked, but had little to no memory of having done so.

This was getting out of control. It had been one kiss, one kiss before he had to say goodbye forever.

It had been no kisses.

Oh, but Gregory was intoxicating. He was like a drug running through Mycroft’s system, and like a drug addiction Mycroft’s brain was yelling no and his body was ignoring the cries, preferring to sate its craving as months of unrecognised repressed longing flooded his system.

His hand left Gregory’s hair, trailing down his back and over flexed shoulder muscles to wrap around his waist and pull him flush against Mycroft.

Yes, that was all he needed. One more, one more time to show his body that the ‘magic’ was all chemically induced drive from Estrus. One more time to _prove_ to himself that Gregory was nothing special.

He returned to Gregory’s lips gently rolling the flesh between his teeth, laving the trapped expanse with his tongue. Gregory’s lips weren’t smooth or soft or even overly generous. They were chapped from the cold and the wind, the skin pebbly beneath his tongue.

Mycroft’s left hand tightened in Gregory’s hair, preventing Gregory moving towards him to force a firmer contact as Mycroft slowly released his hold on his Submissive’s mouth. Mycroft paused, just the barest fraction from contact.

He had to stop, had to think. He had come here to give Gregory a message, a non-negotiable statement.

Oh, but once more. Just once more.

He shouldn’t. Gregory would hate him even more if Mycroft had sex with him while he laboured under false impressions.

‘He’ll hate you anyway. You’ll never see him again, what more can it do? And look at him, so desperate, so needy, begging for a strong hand to guide him. What kind of Dominant would let such a willing specimen pass?’

Gregory wouldn’t be willing if he was aware Mycroft had changed his mind.

‘Look at his eyes, how glazed they are. He’s already falling into Subspace, already going deep. What kind of irresponsible Dominant would let a Submissive go in such a state, prime target for harm, without bringing him properly through the cycle and safely returning him to the surface?’

Mycroft’s thumb drew lazy circles on Gregory’s hip bone, feeling the smooth glide of skin and the change of texture as he crossed scar tissue.

Anger flared through him. Those scars shouldn’t be there. The very presence of such marks was proof of Dominant failure, proof that no one had kept Gregory safe.

‘He doesn’t have a Dominant to keep him safe. He’s out there, blundering around London, safe only because no one looks, no one truly observes. What happens if you let him go? He only has you to look after him. What happens when he’s discovered and claimed by the first Dominant to cross his path and _know_? He’s too strong for them; they’d destroy him to break him. He’ll be in danger.’

Mycroft’s hands tightened possessively on hair and hip. He could keep Gregory safe.

‘He needs teaching, guidance.’

He let his lips ghost over Gregory’s, feeling the trembling suffusing his body as the Submissive tried to not move when Mycroft had made his wishes so clear, but yearning to increase the contact. He couldn’t quite stop himself and Mycroft felt the tip of Gregory’s tongue press against his lips before it was dragged forcibly back by its owner.

No, he shouldn’t. He didn’t need or want a Submissive. His existing casual arrangement was as much sexual gratification as he required and it was far too much effort to claim a Submissive, especially a Submissive he _couldn’t_ claim.

‘But think about your family. Think about coming home to Gregory opening the door, your son asleep on your lap while you finish a glass of wine and Gregory smiling from the other seat as you talk.’

But that wasn’t what he wanted. His job, his career was everything.

‘But is that really true, especially now that this is right in front of you for the taking?’

Yes, it was. He never wanted the family life.

‘Really? Not even Before, when you used to dream about it, dream about your future? Your own family, how you’d bring Sherlock to live with you, away from them,  so you could take care of him until he Bonded, your children, your Bonded Mate and how you’d look after them all.’

Mycroft stilled. That was a long time ago. Those dreams were gone. He’d got rid of them, he’d had to.

‘But you don’t have to now.’

Gregory whimpered slightly, head trying to nestle further into Mycroft’s hand without moving as his distress translated through to his Submissive.

I don’t need it.

‘You want it.’

No, he didn’t.

He leant Gregory’s head on his shoulder and nuzzled the join of neck and shoulder. It wasn’t Estrus, there was no overabundance of pheromones pouring out of Gregory’s skin to flavour his scent and taste, and yet, and yet there was still a hint of flavour there, something that made Mycroft want to pull Gregory onto the bed with him and twine them together until there was no way to tell where one of them started and the other ended.

His hand was moving on Gregory’s back. Tracing the lines he’d put there last time, he realised.

“They’ve faded.” The words were whispered into his jacket, Gregory’s voice catching slightly as he tried to force them out. “You could make new ones.”

Mycroft pushed him back slightly, cupping Gregory’s chin to tilt his head. Gregory really was falling under already, and at quite a rapid pace if the expression in his eyes was to be believed. His eyelids were half closed, eyes sleepy and content though he clearly wasn’t tired. The muscles holding his shoulders back had relaxed, still keeping his arms in place, but making it look less forced as he accepted the posture.

“It’s you.” The words were dreamy coming from Gregory’s mouth, country accent thicker than in normal speech. “Tried with others, couldn’t even kneel for them, but you, all you have to do is look at me.”

Mycroft’s finger traced along Gregory’s jaw.

“It was written on your face, that you were wondering.” A smile twitched at the edges of those thin chapped lips. “Despite what you might like to believe, I’m not a total idiot.”

“I have never believed you were.” He drew Gregory back forward into his chest.

Gregory let out a small sigh into his shirt. “That makes one of you.”

Suddenly Mycroft very much wanted to renew those marks, retrace Gregory’s skin with hands and teeth and leather.

 “Stand.” He growled.

Gregory scrambled to his feet, releasing his hands in his haste to stand. Mycroft made his ascent much more gracefully, pinning Gregory in place as the Submissive started to follow him over to his bedside drawer with a pointed and commanding look.

What to use, what to use? He’d used the paddle and the crop last time. Did he want to repeat, relive that experience, or use this last time for something new, for more memories to file away in the recesses he never let himself look at in his mind? His fingers drifted over the paddle, the riding crop, the flogger... yes, maybe the flogger. Black suede, 30 tails only 15 inches long, ideal for some of the more... intimate areas.

Did he want gloves? His black leather gloves rested in their assigned space in the drawer. The sensation of leather whispering over skin could heighten the experience beautifully, but not tonight. Tonight he wanted the feeling of Gregory under his fingertips, to caress his skin with Mycroft’s own hands, not through a barrier, no matter how tantalising.

He let a small smile curl over his lips. It wasn’t as if Gregory required the extra stimulation, so Mycroft may as well indulge.

He briskly closed the drawer and pivoted, flogger resting casually in one hand. Gregory stood still, shoulders back and down, legs spread apart in a stance obviously learnt at the police academy, though little used since. It lacked the military precision that would have accompanied parade rest, but it was certainly more than adequate for what Mycroft had planned.

“ **Stay.** ” He put a small measure of Dominance behind the command to ensure that Gregory stayed still, but also because he enjoyed the shiver that ran over the body before him.

His pace as he walked forward was measured, calculating. It was a mask more than anything, he already knew what he was going to do, but the act seemed to interest Gregory if the way his breathing hitched was any indication. Mycroft stopped a full two feet away from him, letting his eyes trail up and down Gregory’s body in a much more deliberate and provocative manner than before. Arms at his sides, fingers balled into fists to restrain himself. He was unconsciously holding his stomach in, paranoid that Mycroft would find him wanting? Nonsensical behaviour. Thighs very well-muscled, police work would do that if you refused to stay behind a desk and let other people do the work for you, and he had very well defined calves.

As he gaze drifted back up Mycroft deliberately and obviously took in the sight he’d denied himself earlier. Gregory wasn’t as long as he’d thought from his hazy recollections, but he was quite a bit thicker. His cock was certainly interested in the proceedings, though it had settled slightly since it was a hot brand against Mycroft’s thigh on the floor, mostly, but not fully erect as Gregory waited for the proceedings to play out.

Mycroft felt a throb in his own groin in reaction to the member he’d known very intimately a few months past and a sudden answering empty echo from his rear. It wasn’t that long ago he’d been stretched around that length. The burn had taken a couple of days to fade, despite the lubrication from his cycle.

He stretched out his arm and placed the head of the flogger’s handle on Gregory’s shoulder, the tails unfurling down his back as Mycroft strolled casually around to his body. The marks had indeed faded from the flesh. That was okay, Mycroft would be renewing them soon.

The gentle movement of the suede was causing little involuntary leaps and jumps in the muscles down Gregory’s back. The scar on his hip, knife if Mycroft was any judge and at least five years old, curled around onto his back. A small thing, but one that meant so much. Gregory had other scars, on his knees from childhood falls, on his wrist from an ill-conceived blood oath during a drunken university party, but this one, this knife wound, it shouldn’t be there.

There were no scars from rough play during sessions, nowhere that Mycroft could see, and right now he could see all of Gregory. No marks along his back or buttocks consistent with a whip or crop in any form, no scars around his wrists from yanking on handcuffs not designed for the play they were used in. Gregory’s body was for him. No other, pathetic, irresponsible Dominant had been there to harm him and permanently blemish the skin through lack of skill. Mycroft’s lips curled in a disgusted snarl. No proficient Dominant should be leaving scars on a Submissive, but that didn’t mean that most of society didn’t.

The first strike drove an expletive from Gregory’s lips. “Rule number four, Gregory.”

Teeth sank into the flesh of Gregory’s lower lip as he attempted to keep another word escaping with the second blow.

He remembered. That was good.

Mycroft let the flogger trail over Gregory’s back, circling each globe of his arse before teasing the edge of his thighs. The next blow fell squarely on the top of Gregory’s calves and then immediately on his shoulder, keeping him off balance, the movements unpredictable.

More blows rained down, turning his back, buttocks and thighs a glorious pink. They would have to move to the bed soon, Gregory was losing his balance as he fell further and further from true thought.

“Wider.” Mycroft whispered, the first words in the five minutes he’d spent decorating Gregory’s skin.

Gregory eagerly spread his legs wider. So responsive, so beautiful. Mycroft stepped closer and let the black suede tails drip down Gregory’s chest. The clothing barrier between his chest and Gregory’s back prevented him feeling the heat he knew must be radiating off the flesh, but there was more than sufficient satisfaction as Gregory’s head tilted back against his shoulder, nipples tightening at the soft touches, cock bobbing full and red between his legs, fully erect again.

The flogger came down hard, catching the bud of one nipple, leaving white streaks across Gregory’s ribs and chest which quickly flushed red and faded to pink. The whimpering moan released against his neck was exquisite.

“Shhh.” Mycroft whispered against the short silver bristles, nuzzling the top of Gregory’s head. “I have you.”

There was an answering nuzzle and sigh against his neck, barely accessible to Gregory with the jacket and shirt.

He ran the flogger the length of his Submissive’s body again, draping its fronds across the eager cock, drifting tantalisingly between thighs and brushing over sensitive skin. The next strike was more of a flick, tails skimming the edge of Gregory’s balls and perineum.

A gasp, but no withdrawal.

Mycroft brought the flogger down again, this time across Gregory’s lower belly so that only a few stray tails flicked against his cock.

This time there was a bite to his neck and Gregory ground back against Mycroft’s own erection, straining through his trousers. He was obviously not adverse to a little pain as well as pleasure. That fit with what Mycroft remembered of their previous play.

“Please.” The word was a soft, barely more than an exhale. Teeth gently grazed his neck again and a tongue slowly began to prod and probe the pulse point.

Mycroft closed his eyes and let Gregory do as he wished. It felt glorious to have those lips fluttering over his skin, tasting him, memorising him like he was memorising Gregory.

Emboldened by his lack of punishment, Gregory’s hand came up to cup Mycroft’s cheek and turn his face to his own. “Please” his lips said, though no sound was emitted as they caressed Mycroft’s own. “Please” The other hand slipped between their bodies and began to undo the buttons on Mycroft’s trousers.

Mycroft smiled into the kiss. Why not? It would be interesting to see if real life lived up to his little fantasy.

He propelled Gregory forward and then stepped away, walking casually to the bed. There was confusion in Gregory’s eyes, a look that conflicted with the general haziness over his demeanour, clearly unsettled by the turn of events.

He could have used the chair, made the situation exactly like his fantasy, but this seemed more appropriate somehow.

Mycroft was aware of the hunger in Gregory’s eyes as he positioned himself on the edge of the bed. He watched Gregory watching him, watching him lean back provocatively on his elbows, one leg cocked at the knee to rest a sock clad foot, slippers abandoned in the hallway, on the edge of the bed. The eagerness written into every line of Gregory’s body as he openly eyed Mycroft’s reclining figure, eyes lingering on his partially revealed neck, covered wrists and groin... no, not groin, Mycroft raised an evaluating eyebrow, his rear, was so obvious it was almost a caricature, but that didn’t stop a wave of heat rushing through his body and pooling in Mycroft’s cock at the visual confirmation of interest.

“Well?” His voice was unexpectedly hoarse.

Understanding flashed through Gregory’s eyes and replaced the consternation with... confidence? Arrogance? Possession? No, Mycroft realised, hunting. Predator instincts. Well, well, well, he’d awoken the Alpha. He’d been wondering whether he’d come out to play.

Mycroft would have expected the Submissive state Gregory had fallen into to disintegrate as the Alpha came to the fore, but the general sense of submission never faded as Gregory sauntered towards him.

Ah, sauntered, not stalked. Of course, being an Alpha gave Gregory predatory instincts, but the Submissive nature changed how they were satisfied. Gregory wouldn’t hunt him with aggression, force and power; He’d lure Mycroft with traps of seduction, submission and consent.

‘Intriguing,’ Mycroft thought, letting his head fall back as Gregory knelt to kiss his foot, his ankle, his calf, ‘how intriguing.’

The kisses slowly migrated up Mycroft’s extended leg, teeth nipping at the flesh beneath the fabric. When he reached Mycroft’s upper leg, Gregory began to intersperse the nips with pointed nuzzles along Mycroft’s inner thigh. There was something exhilarating in the deceptively simple acts, the adrenaline heightened sensation that resulted from the irrepressible feeling that he was holding a tiger on a leash, and that the tiger was only tame by choice.

The feeling, the thrill of controlling such _potential,_ was intoxicating.

Gregory’s nose was nudging the very top of Mycroft’s inseam and _not moving_. Mycroft tore his gaze from whatever it was his eyes were focusing on on the ceiling to look down at Gregory’s face. It was clearly a deliberate act to achieve that exact result because the eyes that stared back were heated and sly. As soon as their gazes were locked and Gregory was assured of Mycroft’s full attention, he moved that final centimetre, nose hovering just where Mycroft’s cock was straining through his trousers, refusing to touch. It was so easy to imagine the fabric barrier wasn’t there, that he could feel Gregory’s warm breath blowing over his taut flesh in an insubstantial caress.

His inadvertent fantasy hadn’t involved Gregory’s mouth, but now that the thought had occurred, now that it was teasing him just out of reach, Mycroft knew that nothing else would satisfy. It had to be Gregory’s mouth, his teeth, his throat, and his Submissive would do it too. It was clearly his intent, staying there, challenging Mycroft’s control over both himself and Gregory, waiting to see which of them would break first. It wouldn’t be Mycroft. In just a few seconds Gregory would move his hand to Mycroft’s trousers, would pull down the zipper, and do much more satisfactory things than hover out of reach. Yes, he was moving, moving-

Down Mycroft’s leg, with the most deliberate and purposeful glint in his eye.

A growl escaped Mycroft’s throat, even as part of him saluted the audacity of his Submissive. He would teach him his place; show him that it didn’t pay to tease his Dominant.

Gregory merely threw him a teasing glance and nipped his inner thigh on his way down to Mycroft’s other foot.

“Gregory.” Mycroft hadn’t meant to speak, had meant in fact to wait out the teasing and then punish Gregory with a few well-earned strokes of the paddle or the crop, but the name came unbidden from his throat.

At least he wasn’t moaning or otherwise revealing how desperate such simple acts had made him. At least it was a snarl, not a whimper, but it was still conceding and Mycroft would berate himself over giving the ground.

Later, much later, because right now Gregory’s mouth had returned to the juncture of Mycroft’s legs and his nose was buried in the fabric of Mycroft’s trousers and his, oh, his _teeth_ were drawing the zipper down to allow his tongue access to Mycroft’s pants.

The button at the top of his trousers and his belt were still fastened, but that didn’t stop Gregory’s eager tongue saturating the silk covering Mycroft’s erection. His hands were still locked behind his back, Mycroft hazily noticed, he was maintaining the position as best he could. It also meant that Gregory wasn’t going to undo that button, wasn’t going to remove the belt.

Fine, Mycroft would do it, and he would use it to secure Gregory’s hands behind his back, since his cock-tease of a Submissive seemed to like it so much.

Transferring his weight onto one elbow so his other hand was free was almost more coordination than Mycroft was capable of at that time. It was ridiculous, absolutely incomprehensible, how aroused he was, how much he needed Gregory. Gregory hadn’t even done anything yet, had merely run a gentle touch along Mycroft’s trousers, yet somehow, somehow Mycroft was more worked up than he’d ever been. Worked up enough that when he managed the button and his belt, and Gregory instantly nosed his erection out through the slit in the silk pants to engulf the tip in his hot, hot mouth, Mycroft dropped the belt and abandoned all thoughts of restraining his Submissive in favour of burying his hand back in Gregory’s hair.

It was indescribable. In sharp contrast to his teasing acts Gregory had swallowed as much of Mycroft in one go as he could, aided, finally, by his hands which were released from behind his back. He was clearly inexperienced, unable to take much of Mycroft’s length and gagging as the short, aborted thrusts of Mycroft’s hips pushed it too deep, but just the feeling of the moist cavern, the tiny hint of teeth, deliberate or not, as Gregory pulled back up the shaft and the tentative swirl of tongue around the head before sucking the length back in, was more perfect that the most experienced Submissive Mycroft had ever had on their knees in front of him.

Some part of Mycroft’s brain, the part that wasn’t panting and straining in Gregory’s mouth and flexing fingers in his hair, noted that Gregory had clearly restricted himself mainly to female Submissives, despite showing no aversion to the male genders. Perhaps he’d found them easier to Dominate for some reason? Lack of, or less intense, interest maybe?

The thought was quickly derailed as every bone in Mycroft’s Dominant body screamed out a rejection at the thought of Gregory ever touching or being touched by anyone else. The anger flowed through Mycroft’s voice, filling the air with an animalistic rumble.

Gregory was _his_ , his Submissive, his Alpha, the sire of _his_ child. No one else would touch him, no one else _could_ touch him. He belonged to Mycroft and only Mycroft. He thrust his hips forward, not caring that Gregory was likely to gag at the intrusion. Gregory was his, his to possess in every way.

Sure enough Gregory’s throat convulsed around the hard length that suddenly found its way down his throat.

“ **Relax**.”

Mycroft kept thrusting, trusting his dominance to work long enough on Gregory’s muscles for him to learn how to take Mycroft deliberately, without the need for Mycroft’s help. Gregory felt so good around him, nose brushing against the curly hair at the hilt of his penis, hands clutching Mycroft’s thighs for balance. His throat, swallowing wildly to accommodate every inch of swollen member, felt so tight and warm with every thrust and the sensation so heady that Mycroft took several strokes to realise he was no longer the one setting the pace, but Gregory who, with a couple of reflexive tears rolling down his face, was drawing Mycroft in and out, hand on his hair just resting no longer commanding.

Perfect, so perfect. He shouldn’t have learnt so fast, shouldn’t have been able to go from choking to making Mycroft’s eyes roll back in his head so quickly. Mycroft had been expecting to have to lead Gregory through it with dominance, but the matter was well and truly out of his hands as Gregory sped up.

Mycroft’s whimpers that he would never ever admit to were gaining strength and pushing themselves out his own throat. His Submissive, his amazing Submissive. His rear gave a throb, constricting around nothing and reminding Mycroft how empty he was, how much he wanted Gregory’s fingers, no his cock, buried deep in Mycroft’s arse, but that would mean taking his cock out of Gregory’s mouth, of removing himself from that decadent warmth, and as much as Mycroft wanted, needed, Gregory beneath him, thrusting up into his arse, he couldn’t stand to withdraw long enough to remove his trousers let alone the duration of prep now that they no longer had the Estrus induced aid.

He needed Gregory to come, needed to feel the sensation of that throat closing around him as Gregory spilled, needed to see what Gregory looked like and remember it. It took effort to drag his hand out of the short silver strands to push at Gregory’s own, but he managed. It took three tries, Mycroft too far beyond words to give verbal directions, before his inelegant shoves on Gregory’s wrist conveyed his message and with a moan that sparked from Mycroft’s cock to his head and his toes, Gregory obeyed.

Mycroft couldn’t see Gregory’s hand, could barely make out the expression on his face, his senses had reached such a point of betrayal, but he could feel every shudder of pleasure that migrated through Gregory’s body and directly into Mycroft’s cock.

“Oh G-God, Greg-gory, come for me.”

Gregory’s face went slack as he pushed himself over the edge, expression suffused with pleasure. The sight was too much and Mycroft bucked his hips again, roughly taking Gregory’s mouth for one, two, three more strokes before the pressure exploded out of his balls and all the tension in his body released.

Gregory pulled off and spluttered, having been too far into Subspace to consciously think about swallowing without a command Mycroft hadn’t thought to give, and then climbed up on the bed next to where Mycroft had collapsed. The feel of Gregory next to him on the bed, the phantom memory of last time they had been together, fluttered through his body, not enough to rouse him again, but enough to cause almost painful pangs of need as his arse clenched around nothing.

Next time, he promised himself as he pulled Gregory closer and swung his legs onto the bed, next time he would do as he vaguely remembered promising Gregory during Estrus and use the cock ring to ride him until he was so sensitive, so ready to burst, that he came on command without Mycroft even touching him. Hours, it would take hours, hours of appropriate prep and play to build the sensation and make it last, make it burn rather than flare and subside, but Mycroft was patient and they would do it and he would ride Gregory to his own completion before ordering him to come too.

Next time.

Next time, there was no next time. This was a one-time thing, a last go to clear his ridiculous obsession before he told Gregory that he was aborting the baby. There would be no next time.

‘Yes, there will be.’ The voice in his head laughed in cruel satisfaction. ‘You know there will be.’

No-

‘Stop fighting it. There will be a next time, and a time after that.’

The baby-

‘You want it. Admit it, you want it, and you want him, buried to the hilt in your body, fucking you until he begs for mercy.’

Mycroft tensed, languid muscles locking into terrified place.

‘Admit it.’

No, no the risk-

He would take it. God help him, for Gregory, he was selfish enough to risk the world.

Gregory nuzzled his neck comfortingly, slowly rising from Subspace as he came down from his endorphin induced high. Mycroft pushed him off, threw his legs off the side of the bed, and hung his head in his hands, emotions and thoughts at war.

“Mycroft?” Gregory’s voice was scratchy and would probably remain so for a couple of days.

He had felt so good!

A gentle hand came to rest on Mycroft’s shoulder. Gregory, giving again, offering more of himself than Mycroft wanted to, could, take.

“I will never collar you.” His hands dropped from his face, elbows resting on knees. He kept his gaze on the wall, refusing to turn around.

The hand fell away. “I know.”

“I will never give or take a bracelet from you.”

“I know.”

“I will never acknowledge you in public, or in private.”

“I know.” The hand rested on the bed next to him, reassurance without contact. Gregory was trying to give him _space_! “I don’t expect you to, Mycroft.”

Fingertips gently brushed over his sleeve.

“I know you don’t love me, not like I love you. I don’t expect you to. I don’t even think you can, not because you’re incapable of the emotion, but because you will never ever let go of enough control to let yourself feel it. That’s okay, Mycroft. This, I can live with this.” He was guided back to lean back on the pillows. “Being this close to you, the only person in your life, even if you don’t love me, even if you never do, it’s enough.”

Gregory’s eyes were kind, but sad. It won’t stay enough, Mycroft wanted to tell him, wanted to rage at him and tell him that sooner or later Gregory wouldn’t be able to stand for it, but he couldn’t, because if he did, Gregory might leave.

For whatever illogical reason that he was willing to throw away so much for so little gain, Mycroft didn’t want Gregory to leave.

With a lingering sigh the Submissive, his Submissive (but not), lay down next to him. Mycroft expected Gregory to stay there, to attempt to curl Mycroft into his arms as Mycroft had hazy Estrus recollections of him doing, but instead Gregory rearranged himself lower on the bed, head resting on Mycroft’s lower rib. It seemed so natural to allow his hand to fall back into the hair, for his thumb to run across the more sensitive skin at the nape of the neck.

Why was he doing this? Twice now he had been forced to acknowledge that this wasn’t what he wanted, that it couldn’t happen, and three times he had succumbed to unsteady emotional reasoning with no solid consistent basis. He should refuse, should follow through with his plans, only the plans now seemed to involve Gregory and a child, not a distinct lack of either like they should.

When had Gregory become so important? He’d spent the past months since heat pushing him away, re-establishing the boundaries that had just been trampled over. It was incomprehensible. He didn’t like incomprehensible.

It took Mycroft a while to realise that Gregory’s fingers were not still, that they were in fact undoing the rough silk vest and had moved onto the lower buttons on Mycroft’s shirttail without him realising it. Before he could say anything the fingers brushed the fabric aside and splayed across his stomach, the pervading warmth at the contact driving all thoughts of protest out of Mycroft’s mind. The fingers stroked gently, brushing sweeps that should have been teasing or ticklish, but were only inexplicably soothing.

The baby, Mycroft realised, kicking himself for being so slow though in the last hour around Gregory it seemed a recurring pattern. Gregory was curled protectively around the baby and in his own way was saying hello.

They lay there, neither of them speaking, the only movements Gregory’s fingers, though Mycroft was beginning to feel a compulsive need to tuck himself back into his trousers and fix the zip.

“You were going to abort anyway, weren’t you?” Gregory’s voice was a shock in the silence. He didn’t turn his head to look at Mycroft. “That’s why you took so long downstairs; you’d talked yourself back into it.”

The air felt heavy, loaded.

“Yes.” There was no use denying it.

“Are you going to now?” Even with the rasp to his voice it was possible to tell Gregory’s tone was guarded as he tried to hide how worried he was. The fingers stopped, hand stretching over Mycroft’s middle as far as possible, as if trying to gather and protect the foetus.

This was the first time Gregory had been able to touch his child, even by proxy through Mycroft’s skin. He’d only known for an hour, and yet he was clearly attached, clearly terrified Mycroft would make the smart, sensible, responsible choice and terminate the pregnancy.

He should say yes. “No.”

The fingers gently curled and resumed their rhythmic stroking.

“What changed your mind?”

“I don’t know.”

There was the slightest movement of Gregory’s head, an acknowledging non-existent nod.

“You.” Mycroft said suddenly.

He didn’t know why he said it, didn’t know where the answer had come from, but he knew it was true, that despite the utter illogic of the answer (Gregory was not important enough to Mycroft’s duties to make a valid consideration, even if Mycroft considered him important in his personal life and it was vexing that so much of his thought process had been absorbed by Gregory, Gregory, Gregory) it was the truth.

A soft kiss was laid on his abdomen. “Thank you.”

What did one reply to that? ‘You’re welcome, I’m only risking the fate of the free world for you’? ‘No problem, I only might die for this’? Mycroft chose to say nothing.

There was a muted buzz from the foot of the bed where Gregory’s clothes were still neatly folded. A text message.

“Sherlock must have got tired of calling.” Gregory murmured into his abdomen, not moving from his position and continuing to flutter kisses around Mycroft’s belly button.

“Sherlock?” Mycroft changed to little circles instead of brush strokes.

It was relaxing, lying like this. It was never something he had indulged in with his other partners. Sessions had always been more... arrangements than assignations and even with Arum work had usually quickly summoned them back to reality.

“Mmm. Called me three times trying to get hold of me this afternoon. Wanted to know if you’d contacted me. Insisted that if you didn’t tell me, that he would. Didn’t tell me what, just that if you didn’t tell me to call him.”

Of course Sherlock had contacted Gregory.

“How did he take it?” Gregory asked suddenly.

“Hmm?” Mycroft craned his neck slightly to see the back of the silver head on his chest.

“Sherlock. When you told him you were, you know, pregnant. How did he take it?”

Mycroft frowned. “He was less than pleased.”

Gregory sighed. “I can imagine. That can’t have been easy to hear.”

“Pardon?” Mycroft wracked his brain, forcing the sluggish connections to start firing again after their brief shut down.

“Well, when you told him that you were going to have a baby. You said he was finding it hard to cope with the fact he couldn’t get pregnant so-”

Mycroft froze, images of Sherlock’s face, Sherlock’s anguished face and the hurt behind the immediate anger.

“Mycroft?” Gregory rolled over, dislodging Mycroft’s hand.

Mycroft paid him no notice. How could he not have thought? He’d been so wrapped up in himself, in his problem that it had never even occurred to him the effect it would have on Sherlock. He was Sherlock’s older brother, he had sworn when he was born to protect him from harm and he’d...

“You didn’t.” Gregory’s voice was flat, devoid of emotion. His policeman’s voice, the one he used at particularly bad crime scenes when he was holding everything back so he could do his job. “Mycroft, tell me you broke it to him gently.”

“Not,” Mycroft licked his lips, feeling very off balance, “not quite.”

“Not quite?” There was protectiveness in Gregory’s posture, but no possession. Interesting. Mycroft hadn’t realised Gregory considered Sherlock so important, that their relationship was such that outside biological interference Gregory would react as a Family Alpha when the Omega was threatened.

He licked his lips again.

“I may have been quite vocal, and used some, less than flattering terms in reference to the foetus.”

“Unflattering terms?” There was a dangerous edge to Gregory’s voice, the Alpha in him reacting violently to the perceived threat. From the underlying growl in his tone Mycroft suspected the only reason Gregory hadn’t manhandled him into a position more conducive to forcing answers was because he was an Omega, Gregory’s Omega, at least in Gregory’s mind.

This was not going to go down well.

“The phrase ‘parasitical growth’ may have been employed, and I’m afraid I made my plans regarding its continual impingement on my life quite plain.”

Gregory covered his face with his hand. “You told Sherlock, an Omega who is actively trying with everything he has, and failing, to fall pregnant that you were pregnant, that the baby was a parasite, and that you were going to abort it as soon as possible because you loathed its existence.”

Put that way, it did sound rather awful.

“Yes.”

“In raised voices.”

“Yes.”

“What else?”

“Pardon?”

Gregory gave him a no nonsense glare. “You wouldn’t look this guilty if it were just that, Mycroft. What else did you do?”

Mycroft swallowed, hand tingling compulsively where it had impacted with Sherlock’s cheek. “Things were heated.”

“Tell me you didn’t Dom him.”

Mycroft didn’t say anything. It was, after all, technically true and certainly the preferred path for Gregory’s thoughts to travel down.

“Call him.” It was an order, said softly or not, and the words made Mycroft bristle instinctively. “Mycroft,” Gregory’s tone was placating, “call him. Now.”

“Now?” Mycroft gestured with an imperious nod of the chin at their dishevelled and not entirely, or at all, clothed state.

“It’s a phone call, My. He won’t be able to see through the phone. Call him, now.”

He did need to call Sherlock. He needed to apologise, to check that he hadn’t poked Sherlock’s open wound too hard and caused it to bleed uncontrollably. It was all too easy to imagine he’d tipped Sherlock’s fragile emotional state too far and that the Omega Submissive had raided the stash of drugs he absolutely did not secrete in the flat for emergencies, in case.

His phone was in his pocket. He didn’t even have to move to fetch it. The second ring, the third ring, the fourth, were not surprising. The fact that Sherlock picked up before the fifth was.

He didn’t speak, just let the absence of connecting buzz provide his greeting.

“Sherlock.”

“Mycroft.”

Mycroft winced, forgetting momentarily that Gregory was there to see the facial expression. Sherlock’s voice was cold and detached in a very deliberate and cutting way. He was, at least, sober.

“I-” He didn’t know what to say. “I’ve changed my plans.”

“Indeed?” He could imagine the sarcastically inquisitive eyebrow that accompanied the tone of voice.

“Yes, I will be cancelling my appointment with Dr Koen tomorrow.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

Still cold, still distant, still _bored_.

“I suppose it is appropriate to express some form of gratitude.” Mycroft ignored the sarcastic huff from his midriff where Gregory had resettled himself.

“You have been in contact with Lestrade then?”

“Yes.”

There was silence. Gregory poked his stomach just below the rib.

“I also believe I owe you an apology. My words were ill-chosen and fuelled by inappropriate impulses.”

Another poke.

“And I should not have forced you into actions against your will, or reacted so forcibly to your opinions.” It was as close as Mycroft would risk coming to acknowledging his physical actions with Gregory in the room.

There was a slight pause as Sherlock weighed the sincerity of his remorse. “Apology accepted.”

Pause.

“Was there anything else?”

“No, no, that was everything I needed to say.” Mycroft let his free hand be stolen by Gregory, his fingers squeezed in either warning or approval. These conversations were always quick between them, when one or the other pushed too far. Neither he nor Sherlock enjoyed the intrinsic emotional vulnerability that necessarily accompanied them.

“In that case, I have an experiment that requires my attention before it melts the bench top again.”

Mycroft didn’t ask. “Good evening then.”

“Yes. Oh, and Mycroft,” Mycroft paused, about to lower the phone from his ear to hang up, “next time, take the extra moments to fix your trousers and let Lestrade redress.”

The dial tone sounded in his ear. Gregory froze, ears flushing red in a manner that by necessity meant his face was completely aflame.

Mycroft merely smiled, and placed the phone gently on the bedside table.

Let Gregory be embarrassed. With those words, Sherlock had confirmed that Mycroft was actually forgiven.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Probably the last time you're going to be seeing anything from Mycroft's mind for a while, so hope you enjoyed the interlude, brief as it was. This is the end of the first segment of this story, now that they're together, but that in no way means the end.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Evening (night) all! Sorry I'm putting this up so late, but it is still technically Wednesday for another hour.
> 
> Glad to know that so many people liked the last chapter. For those of you feeling a little bit more sympathetic, or at least like you have a better understanding of Mycroft's turmoil, try to keep that in mind as we go. Needless to say, as predicted by some people he will go through periods of panic and that will... not go so well for Greg. All I ask is don't hate him completely. Just ooonnneeee little redeemable spark somewhere deep in side, that's all I ask for. 
> 
> No warnings for this part specifically. I will say that the first paragraph is best read in a slightly bouncy tone, else it runs on a bit though. 
> 
> Other than that, hopefully this time I caught all the editing mistakes, but if not I'm sure you'll let me know.

The resounding click of his pen as Greg retracted the nib following the successful completion of another bout of paperwork was the perfect complement to his otherwise upbeat mood. He chucked the file in his out tray, indulged in a quick bongo session on the edge of his desk, spun his chair 360°, and picked up the next pile of papers with a cheerful whistle.

Catching sight of Sally Donovan standing in the doorway wearing a facial expression more usually reserved for some of Sherlock’s more outlandish deductions, Greg cleared his throat and attempted to tone it down. Being relegated to paperwork while an internal assessment of his fitness to continue as a homicide Detective was conducted was probably not meant to result in whistling.

It was just so hard! Life suddenly was amazing, and it wasn’t like he was scared of the review. It was all planned. Everything had been accounted for. Mycroft was a literal genius at these things. It would be fine.

First thing Monday morning he’d dragged himself before his DCI, doing his best to look subdued and contrite as he fronted up to gambling that he was now willing to admit was an addiction. He would get help, therapy, take leave, whatever it took, because he realised now that it was out of control and hurting the people he cared about and his job performance.

Greg’s appeal to his DCI rather than straight to Packenham was a deliberate move as less authority or not, unlike Packenham DCI Mulgrave had a well hidden history of addiction. His vice had been alcohol, not gambling like Greg was claiming, but it was enough for Greg’s cries of remorse and promises of redemption to evoke an instant sympathetic connection despite their frequently rocky relationship. Within an hour Mulgrave had been assuring Packenham that if given the chance to bring his ‘habits’ and finances under control, Greg’s behaviour would follow.

“Stress.” Mulgrave had said. Caused by the financial straits Greg had found himself in. “Just stress. He was a first class officer before this, you know.”

As if he’d never butted head with Greg over staffing, cases, paperwork, Sherlock etc before.

Ten minutes later Greg had been sitting back in the same chair in front of Packenham’s desk he’d been in on Friday, trying to act terrified. It wasn’t too hard as Mycroft was neither omniscient nor omnipotent in reality (though effectively close enough as to make no difference) and sitting in that chair every possible thing that could go wrong had seemed certain to happen. Packenham could just as easily make an example of Greg as he could use him for ‘ _New Scotland Yard’s Compassion: Mental Health of Officers Top Priority’_ headlines.

Greg, now, in retrospect, could say that he never should have doubted. After a short and obviously prepared, standardised, probably written, checked and authorised by the press secretaries, speech about how the ‘Yard is committed to its officers’ (despite being ready to fire him on Friday), and detailing ‘measures to help with your rehabilitation’ (which thankfully Greg wouldn’t need because everyone knew they were pants), and stressing ‘that you will have to improve your behaviour’ with a hasty ‘but we will support you all the way’ (as long as you recover quickly, quietly and don’t relapse), Greg was released back to his desk on review.

By the time he’d reached his desk the rumours had started. By lunchtime two hours later they were even relatively correct, though a few more sensational stories (he heard one about a drug overdose because he was unable to cope with his unrequited love for an unspecified Sub, which was almost too close to the truth for comfort, but he suspected they were making insinuations about the wrong Holmes brother) still persisted.

Mycroft’s cover story, originally designed to provide Greg a reason to move in with him, had the enormously beneficial side effect of justifying Greg’s recent behaviour and he appeared instantly forgiven and welcomed back into the fold, even repairing bridges destroyed by Greg’s unwavering support of Sherlock following his revelation. Addiction was something understood intimately by the Yard – if you didn’t have it, you were fighting it tooth and nail, aware of the very real danger of it in your future should you slip, or had already been to rehab. Alcohol was most common – it was too easy to get into the habit of needing a stiff drink after a crap day or gruesome crime scene, and for that one to turn into two or three until you were downing a bottle a night so you could sleep without corpses begging in your dreams.

Drugs happened too, prescription drugs such as sleep aids more commonly than the illicit ones hunted by Vice, though that was more common than anyone liked to admit. Even with the new tighter procedures it was all too easy for a pinch here or a pinch there to go missing, and everyone knew there had been a few times where off duty officers had been quietly let out the backdoor during Vice raids to avoid being officially found at the scene by their friends and colleagues.

Gambling was less commonly admitted to – a card game with friends, even for money? No problem. Underground gambling tournaments? Devilish fun on the wild side of the law. Flutters on the horses? Everyone did it. The football results? Well, that was a must! It wasn’t quite the same as the others by nature, you were unlikely to be warned for placing a bet on the cricket before work, but you would be for showing up drunk, and that made it the perfect addiction for someone with no prior warnings for inebriation on the job.

Greg just hoped no one asked what area of gambling had been his weakness. It was unlikely anyone would be insensitive enough to ask, but if they did he was planning to run with something related to football as he was an avid follower of the Premier League and could at least reel off the kind of information he needed to until he was able to extract himself from the conversation.

“Are you sure you’re okay, Sir?” Sally looked reluctant to ask, probably because the memories of Greg’s reactions to that question recently were all too fresh in her mind.

“Uh yeah, fine, just fine.” Greg picked up his pen and twirled it in readiness for writing.

“Are you sure?”

He undoubtedly deserved that, so he smiled at her in what was hopefully a reassuring manner. “Yes, Donovan, really okay.”

She eyed him disbelievingly. “You’re acting differently.”

“You mean I’m happy.” Greg pointed his pen at her and gave a teasing grin.

Apparently this was the opposite of reassuring because Sally pulled the chair closer to the edge of the desk and sat down, leaning earnestly on her crossed arms. “You’re on review, Sir. Really, it’s okay if you’re not alright.”

“I am alright, Donovan. Really, I am.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Just happy?”

“Yes.”

“Not high or having a complete mental breakdown that has you acting like a lunatic?”

Okay, fair, he _was_ whistling over paperwork.

“Just happy.”

“Because you’re on review?” Sally was clearly one step away from booking him in for extra sessions with the police shrink.

Greg sighed and leant back in his swivel chair, enjoying the rocking motion as it adjusted for his momentum. “Look, I know I’ve been, well, a pain in the arse lately, and it’s just...” He faltered slightly, unsure quite how to express his quite genuine sentiments.

“It’s just?” Sally’s fingers were twitching against the light blue fabric of her shirt.

She’d had a manicure recently. She did always dress well, and if the heelevery now and then s were maybe a little flashy for crime scenes at least she wasn’t in stilettos, or fully made over every day. It was a balance PC Jackson in the Juvenile Crimes Squad had yet to find.

“I feel like I actually have some control again. Over my life. It’s not perfect, I mean, it’s crap, but I feel now like I can do something about that.”

It was entirely true. Things weren’t perfect. They could be considered far from perfect still, but for the first time in almost three months Greg didn’t feel like a warzone. He hadn’t quite reclaimed his equilibrium, and wasn’t sure he ever could given that part of him was now going to fight a lot harder to be heard than it ever had before, but finally the two sides of his soul were resting. Together. He no longer felt the need to drop to his knees in front of the stronger station Doms or act overly pig headedly from Alpha drive. Not quite ying yang, but enough he could function again. Enough he felt like himself again. He imagined it was a similar feeling to one that an addict who had lost control of their addiction and then suddenly been given the opportunity and ability to take it back might feel.

To her credit Sally did look like she was trying to understand. She just... didn’t.

“Look, life’s shit, work’s shit, my finances are, well, shit, but at least now I can _say_ it’s shit and maybe start to do something about it. Step 1 and all that crap.”

“I suppose.” Sally looked reluctant to believe him, or maybe she was just reluctant to believe in his change of heart.

Fair enough, especially was Greg was going to have to fake a few behavioural relapses to avoid looking like some kind of fake miracle cure. Given that his problem was real, though not actually an addiction, Greg imagined he wouldn’t have to fake too hard and they’d burst into his life when they wanted to anyway, but in the meantime he probably wasn’t being hugely convincing.

He did feel bad about deceiving her, especially whenever she threw him a guilty look when she thought he couldn’t see, clearly blaming herself for not seeing the signs and helping him earlier. There was no reason she should feel bad. His problems had been nothing she would believe, and even if she had, nothing she could have helped with.

But she did.

“Sally,” Greg leaned across the table and brushed a thumb comfortingly along the edge of her shirt sleeve, a gesture rather than an actual touch, “I’ll be okay, I promise. I’m getting help and have a strong support network. I’ll be fine.”

She sighed and glared at him. “You’d better be.” _Or else_. She stood, collected her files and walked out without saying more.

Yep, Greg felt like an arse.

The problem, he thought as he returned to his paperwork with slightly less enthusiasm, was that there was no other way to work things, not if he wanted the chanced to have Mycroft. The only reasons two, non-gay, adult Doms would move in together were money or relationship problems which necessitated a loss of living space, and Greg wasn’t _in_ a relationship, let alone one where he’d be required to give up his flat to his partner. All that left was money problems, and while he was hardly rolling in it, he was well enough off that such a drastic move was not on the cards.

Unless they changed that.

The quickest and easiest way to do that would be gambling. Well, the quickest and easiest way that only affected Greg. Apparently the actual quickest and easiest way, in the short term, would have been for Mycroft to crash the economy, but that, he had said with a perfectly straight face, required too much effort to sort again afterwards. Greg had chosen to ignore this display of his (boyfriend? Partner? Lover?) Mycroft’s power and made a note to grab and read some books on addiction from the library.

…and to learn how to play a few more card games. He suspected a real addict would know more than one variation of poker and snap.

What was Mycroft? Friend, soon to be house-mate, Dom? Mycroft had made it very clear that he wouldn’t be formalising that aspect of their relationship, even in private. Lover? He loved Mycroft, but Mycroft wasn’t in love with him. Greg didn’t doubt Mycroft cared about him, maybe even loved him, but he wasn’t in _love_ with him, so was that enough to make them lovers? Or were they just friends with benefits? Friends having a child together?

Greg smothered a grin. He always ended up with a dopy grin on his face at the thought of the baby. Would he be an Alpha or an Omega? Mycroft would undoubtedly prefer an Alpha son to carry on the family line, but Greg didn’t think he cared either way.

He couldn’t wait until Thursday. He’d left Mycroft’s that night only an hour or so after Mycroft had spoken to Sherlock. They’d spent that hour talking through the plan, determining a bankruptcy schedule for Greg and what would occur in the meantime, and that wasn’t long enough. It would never be long enough.

Unfortunately they had to stay low key, unfortunately there could be nothing to suggest their relationship was more than it was, and unfortunately that meant that their schedule could not obviously change. As much as Greg wanted to spend hours in Mycroft’s presence, basking in the knowledge that his Omega (and Mycroft _was_ his, though he would probably deny it) was there, he couldn’t.

So he’d left Saturday night after one last passionate snog in the hallway up against the wall and gone home, where he lay in bed until light had begun to creep over the floor giggling in wonder. If anyone had seen him he would have been deathly embarrassed, a grown Alpha rolling around his bed gleefully hugging his pillow to his chest giggling at random moments, but there was no one to see.

He wished there had been, wished there was _someone_ he could call to tell, share the news that was filling his chest to bursting – his Omega, his child – but he couldn’t. Well, there was Sherlock, but at the time John wouldn’t have appreciated a 1, 2, 3 AM wake-up call and given Sherlock had seen his breakdown into alcoholic tears and then deduced over the phone that Greg had just shagged his brother and was lying there naked... well, Greg still wasn’t ready to face the younger Holmes Omega yet, bursting chest or not.

He had eventually fallen asleep for a couple of hours before his body refused to lie still any longer. Feeling too jittery to stay indoors Greg had headed out for his first run in a month and then had cracked out push ups and sit ups until he crashed on the floor gasping for breath. His muscles were still killing him four days later so he did slightly regret the enthusiasm he’d employed at the time.

It probably hadn’t helped that he’d compounded his physical fitness exertions with a sudden need to comprehensively complete the tasks he’d started on Saturday. It had taken over twelve hours with no lunch break, but by nine o’clock that night Greg had collapsed on the sofa in the knowledge that every room in the flat had been sorted, tidied, scrubbed, bleached, dusted, vacuumed and disinfected as applicable. He had taken five large trash bags to the bins and had another three of donation items at the door. He’d moved all the furniture to vacuum underneath and had located a missing CD, an overdue library book, several pieces of jewellery that could only have been Josephine’s (now in the donation bag), which said a lot about how long since he had cleaned the flat properly, and about £10 in change. With the £8 he’d found taking the couch apart to clean it, dinner that night had essentially been free.

One more day, one more day, just one more day, till he got to meet Mycroft. It was harder than he thought not to send an endless stream of texts.

The sound of raised voices drifted through the door, but it wasn’t enough to grab Greg’s attention from his baby induced reverie until his door was thrown open, at which point his pen dug into, and through, the page he was writing on.

“Freak!” Sally’s indignant voice rang in Greg’s ears as he reluctantly raised his head.

It wasn’t Sherlock at the door (thank God) though from the sound of Sally’s raised voice he was just out of view in the bullpen. No, standing wild eyed in Greg’s doorway was John Watson.

Ah.

He’d hoped to make it a week before the rumours had hit Baker Street.

“John.”

It was always possible they were here for some other reason. Maybe Sherlock had come up with a theory for a cold case and... let John drag him reluctantly to the Yard and stood back while John barged into Greg’s office?

Yeah, no, they were here exactly why Greg didn’t want them to be.

How on Earth was he going to look Sherlock in the eye?

“Greg.” John didn’t look like he was going to keep going, indecision warring with determination.

Greg sighed and leant back in his chair, attempting a rather bland smile. “What can I do for you, John?”

Moving from the door to the desk was a clear delaying tactic as John tried to work out how to broach the subject. Sherlock slunk through the door behind him and settled as unobtrusively as humanly possible in a corner. Clearly this little excursion was not his idea, but then Sherlock would have worked out the whole plan with the first mention of the rumours.

“Why didn’t you say you were so badly off?”

John was not one to beat around the bush, something Greg was usually very appreciative of, but he wouldn’t have minded some meaningless small talk as they dodged around this issue. John’s eyes bored pleadingly into him, and he swallowed.

The eyes, oh Christ, the eyes.

“Pardon?” Greg fully intended to feign ignorance and bluff his way through as much of this conversation as possible.

He wasn’t ready to deal with John yet, had thought he’d have longer to work out a plausible set of responses to match his new background story and another chance to confirm details with Mycroft, details that didn’t matter when dealing with the Yard, but became very important when dealing with John because John was his friend and John would _ask_. The closest anyone at the Yard had come to pushing had been Sally five minutes ago.

John straightened from his emotive lean over Greg’s desk, some of the easy going attitude falling away.

“Right, fine.”

Greg winced. That was the ‘I’m disappointed in you and incredibly hurt, but am going to keep helping because it’s the right thing to do though you don’t deserve it, you prat’ flat tone of voice that Greg associated with Sherlock being particularly heartless about a case. Greg didn’t like having it directed at him.

“If that’s what you want.” John spun around and took two steps towards the door before spinning back, storming over and slamming his hands down on Greg’s desk. “No, we are not doing this. We are your friends, Greg.”

Greg went to open his mouth and say something, but shut it with a click at Sherlock’s subtle headshake behind John’s back.

“I agreed to wait for you to come to us about the gambling, but this is too far.”

Wait, this _wasn’t_ about the gambling? Oh shit, had Sherlock told John about the baby? Was that why John was upset?

Why would that upset John?

Maybe the drinking. Maybe Sherlock had let slip about Greg’s depressed alcoholic binge the other night.

“Greg,” John’s voice was very calm, with the tinniest hint of pleading demand underneath, “why didn’t you come to us for help when it got so bad?”

“I, uh, it’s not that bad?” Greg was struggling to work out exactly what he was getting in trouble for.

John’s eyes flashed. Wrong answer. “Really? Really, Greg? You’re so badly off you’re having to sell your flat to pay off your debts and it’s not that bad?”

Oh. How on Earth had that made it to 221B already? He’d only let it drop that morning and it hadn’t even made it around the whole of the Yard yet.

“What?!?!” Sally’s indignant/shocked/angry/disbelieving squark rang out from the doorway.

The open door that she slammed in at least one person’s face. With her on the inside of course.

Well, it’d be all over the Yard in about ten minutes now.

“You’re doing what, Guv? Why didn’t you mention this?” Sally stalked up to the edge of the desk and planted her palms squarely on its surface, shoulder to shoulder with John.

Two angry Doms leaning over his desk.

Great, just great. Thank Christ now that he had a Dom, sort of, maybe, he was better able to resist as the Sub was willing to curl away and let the Alpha deal, content that these weren’t their Dom. A week ago he’d have been on the floor already.

At least only one of them was radiating dominance. It was a little unnerving, the fact that for all anger and hurt was rolling off him in waves, John wasn’t actually projecting any dominance. It was impressive self-control, even better than Mycroft’s in its own way. Mycroft appeared to lose elements of his control under emotional rather than intellectual stress; John’s improved.

Greg bared his wrists placatingly, turning his hands palm up on his arm rests, hoping the move would be subconsciously soothing and help calm them down. “It’s not that big a deal-”

“Not that ‘big a deal’? This is a huge deal, guv. Where are you going to live, a hotel? You’re selling your place because you don’t have any money!”

“You’ll come and live at Baker Street.” John tapped his thumb earnestly against the desk. “Sherlock’s been using the spare room as a lab, but it’ll be easy enough to clean it out so you can use it.”

“What? Live with the Freak? No, Sir, you’ll come and stay with me.”

John straightened and crossed his arms angrily in front of his chest, angling to face Sally. Sherlock may not have objected to the insult, but John very much did. He was usually good at ignoring it, most likely at Sherlock’s request, but today...

“Great idea, Sally. Two Doms sharing a living space. That’ll work well.” John always sounded so reasonable when he was being sarcastic.

Sally did not. “Oh, because moving in with you is a much better idea.”

“Excuse-”

“I’m Bonded!”

“To the Freak! You think anyone would want to live with body parts in the fridge when they have a choice?” Sally stood to her full heel augmented height and stuck out her chest, shoulders back and down.

Dominant posturing, and John, easy going, cuddly jumper wearing John, was actually squaring his feet and lifting his shoulders to respond.

Shit.

Greg shot a glance at Sherlock hoping the Sub could maybe do something to ease back his Dom, but Sherlock was trying his hardest to merge with the wall, his facial expression a peculiar mix of boredom and ‘oh God, please get me out of here, I really don’t want to be here’ panic and awkwardness.

No help from that quarter then.

“Um-”

“At least with us he’ll get a room.”

“I have a spare room and it’s not directly above your room so he won’t have to listen to the two of you have sex!”

“No, he’ll get to listen to you and Anderson instead!” That was not a mental image Greg had needed, thanks so much John. “At least _we_ don’t work for him!”

“Don’t...” Sally spluttered.

“Hey-” Greg tried again, but Sally regained her ability to speak (shout) practically before he’d started.

“No, it’ll just make it easier for that _Omega_ to hound him. ‘I’m bored. Give me a case.’ ‘Get me a murder.’.”

“Well-”

Greg stuck two fingers in his mouth and let out an ear splitting whistle, developed specially for use at football games. Unlike his polite attempts at breaking into the conversation, this caused the two warring Doms to swing their attention, and their bodies, back to him.

“Hi, you done? _Don’t,_ ” he held up a hand in warning as Sally went to speak, “answer that. Now, as I was trying to tell you arrangements have been made.” He paused glaring at John until the Alpha Dom closed his mouth, swallowing whatever he’d been going to say. “I’m moving in with Mycroft.”

The reaction was instantaneous.

“Mycroft-” “The Freak’s brother?” “He’s a Dom, you’ll kill each-” “The _Freak’s_ brother???” “within a week!” “No, guv, don’t be-” “Greg-” “stupid, you can’t-” “that’s a bad-” “move in with him!” “idea. You’ll destroy your-” “He’s the Freak’sn-” “friendship-” “ _brother_ and-”

“Hey, hey, hey, hey, HEY!” Greg bashed his hand repeatedly on the desk until he had their attention back. “Sally, he is my best friend, and while I thank you for your offer I really couldn’t move in with an officer in my team. John, Mycroft and I will be fine.”

John raised an incredulous eyebrow. “You’re both unbonded Alphas and you think you can just move into his house and things will be fine? You’ve barely been speaking recently. That’s not going to magically go away.”

“Number 1,” Greg held up a finger, “you can _not_ talk given you moved into a flat share believing Sherlock was an Alpha Dom. Number 2,” finger, “we’re both barely home anyway, and with his commitments Mycroft’s already scheduled to spend five of the next twelve months overseas. This saves him finding a way to take care of the house. Number 3, not that this is any of your business, but recent events have resolved our issues and we are once again properly on speaking terms. Happy now?”

How the hell had John noticed that anyway? Had he been that obvious or was Sherlock rubbing off on his Alpha?

John narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “Fixed? Just like that?”

Greg shrugged, not really sure what to say. ‘Mycroft got his head out of his arse and decided maybe shagging like rabbits would be okay’ didn’t quite... work.

“The gambling. He knew.”

That was good, Greg could work with that without even having to.

“Of course he knew,” John kept muttering under his breath, “he’s Mycroft _Holmes_. Did you know?” John turned and pointed an accusing finger at Sherlock, whose face was completely and utterly schooled boredom, no hint of earlier discomfort. “Did you, Sherlock?”

Sherlock’s gaze was locked with John’s so John probably didn’t see the panicked fluttering of Sherlock’s fingers against the wall.

Greg’s mouth went dry.

“I did not know he had apparently turned to gambling, no.”

“Really?” John’s voice was hard and more than a little dangerous. “ _You_ weren’t aware?”

“I was aware Lestrade was having difficulties and that there were resulting relationship issues with my brother, a relationship I try to ignore to my fullest because it is utterly incomprehensible that anyone could stand Mycroft long enough to be _friends,”_ sneer, “with him. I was not aware of any gambling.” Sherlock lifted his chin imperiously and kept his eyes locked with John’s, something Greg could not have managed in the circumstances.

It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t quite the truth either.

Oh shit.

“You said you knew.” Sally snarled. “Last time you barged in. flinging your arrogant ‘I’m so much better than you because I know everything’ freakishness around. Why didn’t you do something?” Her voice lifted rather than depended through the impersonation. It sounded ridiculous.

Sherlock, like Mycroft, was an excellent actor and his most accomplished and developed role was complete and utter burke. He smirked at Sally, tilting his head to the side so he could look at her provocatively through sinfully long eyelashes, and gave an exaggerated and thoroughly unapologetic shrug.

John’s shoulders relaxed and he shook his head in bemused resignation as apparently acting out to annoy Sally made it more, not less, likely Sherlock was telling the truth about not knowing. With Sherlock, it did perversely make sense. “You are a total git sometimes, you know?”

There was a knock on the door. Both John and Sally turned to face it and Greg tried frantically to catch Sherlock’s eye to apologise, but the younger Submissive had pressed as far back into the corner as possible and had his eyes down. He wasn’t doing anything as obvious as gripping his collar, but he did have a death hold on his right wrist (or more specifically, on the bracelet under the coat on his right wrist) and Greg didn’t think his paleness was entirely due to the harsh office fluorescents.

How had he and Mycroft not thought of this, that by requiring Sherlock to keep their secret they were forcing him to lie to his Bound and Bonded Dominant? Sherlock was barely skating the line now and if John pushed would have to fall one way or another.

Greg had no doubt that Mycroft would be expecting Sherlock to side with him. Mycroft never demanded anything less than total loyalty from those around him and wouldn’t consider less than a year of Bonding anywhere close to over thirty years of family. For that matter Sherlock might believe so too. Greg had no doubt that when the chips were down Sherlock would spill everything, he certainly hoped he would, but by the time Sherlock broke down, being too damn stubborn by half as he had just proven staring down two angry Doms, he may very well have done irreparable damage to his relationship.

Trust was a big issue for John, especially as early on in their friendship Sherlock had left him out of so much (sneaking off to meet mad bombers sprang instantly to mind). It was possible he’d take Sherlock’s deception, technically truthful or not, much more seriously than mere words, which Sherlock appeared very aware of, visibly caught between loyalty to his lover and his brother.

Plus Greg just bet that at some point in the last almost thirty years since Mycroft hit puberty he’d Dommed the ‘do **NOT** tell’ into Sherlock too, probably more than once.

Shit, shit, damn and blast.

The knock on the door turned out to be Anderson, who froze at the sight of John and Sherlock in the office.

“It can wait. I’ll just...” He gesticulated over his shoulder and left, still wary of John after being forced to the floor last time he’d seen him.

Sally tossed back her curls and strolled after him without another word. Greg was going to have to have to talk to her again, he could tell. Her body language clearly radiated ‘very not happy’.

Well, that was later’s problem.

John, now’s problem, settled down in the chair in front of Greg with a sigh. Maybe he had been using some Dominance in his anger because he seemed suddenly much smaller and less imposing. Sherlock stayed where he was, affecting nonchalance against the wall, though Greg thought he was possibly trembling with the adrenaline and fear that came from defying your Dom even through a technicality.

“So how’d you find out?” Greg asked. The two of them hadn’t been to the Yard since his little revelation and it certainly hadn’t come from him or Mycroft.

“Molly. Saw her at Bart’s earlier in the week and then she texted me this morning when she heard.” John picked at the wrist of his Aran jumper, pulling it up just far enough on his right arm for Greg to get the tiniest glimpse of John’s own bracelet.

John always refused to wear it on his left wrist as, being left handed, his right was his non-dominant hand and thus it’s proper place. The fact that, as most of society was right handed, this inadvertently reinforced the illusion that he was a Submissive wasn’t something that bothered him. Greg had often wished he was that brave when it came to defying society’s expectations.

He’d forgotten about Molly. Undoubtedly one of the other DIs or DSs had been to the morgue for a body that day. Greg’s money was on Dimmock. He found Molly relaxing to talk to and probably spilled the whole story.

“Right, yeah.”

This was awkward. Really awkward. There was a reason he’d wanted time to talk to Mycroft before this.

“You’re really going to move in with Mycroft?” John had always been a bit wary of the elder Holmes, had never quite forgiven him for the kidnapping when he first met Sherlock (and quite regularly afterwards). Greg suspected it was a dominant territorial thing between the two of them.

Greg shrugged. “Yeah well, it’s only temporary and he’s got the room. No offence, but you two would” defeat the point of this charade “be loud.”

John just nodded. “That’s true.”

Because Greg had really needed the additional information about their sex life. Oh well, with any luck he’d have his own sex life now for the first time in years.

He wondered whether it was John or Sherlock who was loud.

No, he didn’t, he really did _NOT_ want to know.

“Well,” John stood, “if you need, if it becomes too much, just come over, yeah? Even if it’s just for the night. Even without dynamic issues living with a Holmes can be...” he winced. “Let’s just say I’ve slept on borrowed couches a few times.”

“Yeah, will do.”

John wasn’t going to push. John _wasn’t_ going to push. Oh thank you any and all Gods.

Made Greg feel a bit guilty about expecting such a poor reaction, truth be told. Well, what was a bit more guilt on top of the heaping he already felt for actively lying to his close friend (and forcing said friend’s Sub to lie to him).

With a parting nod, John walked out, but Sherlock hung back. As soon as John was out of sight a slim card materialised between gloved fingers.

“I assume I can trust you with this back?” Sherlock let the card fall into Greg’s outstretched hand.

“Sherlock,-”

I’m sorry. I’m so so so, sorry. I didn’t even think and I know that this, today, was hard and that I’m forcing you to do something you don’t want to do and putting everything you’ve got, everything I’ve envied so much, in danger and have done so completely recklessly and thoughtlessly and -

“-Thank you.”

Thank you for helping me, and being so amazing, and kicking your brother’s arse so he didn’t destroy what could be so fantastic between us and for keeping my secret and his secret and our secret even though we don’t deserve you to.

Sherlock nodded once and left, left hand clutched tight around his wrist.

Greg swallowed heavily and dropped his head into his hands.

Shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll just give you a little bit more information about the story structure quickly since people didn't seem to be sure. This "Book", if you want to think of the story that way, is definitely not done. In terms of chapter count, we're now ~ 1/3 of the way; for words we've just tipped over a quarter. If you imagine a fantasy book, how some of them have parts inside the books, that's what we've just reached the end of. There are three in this book.
> 
> Just for your additional info:  
> \- There are four books in this series. I'm currently writing three while posting this, though I dare not make any estimations as to dates for completion or length yet  
> \- There will be an additional "Part V" (though probably "Part III" by the numbering on AO3) where I put in extra essays about the world, pictures, all that kind of thing. I like visual aids, and I have a OneNote file full of them  
> \- Sherlock and John will certainly be in this story, and you'll see little bits as we go through, but their journey will transition to the forefront more in Book III and most certainly take centre stage in Book IV
> 
> Any other questions or confusion, just let me know. Always happy to discuss (though if you want a long discussion with actual replies to your comments, you're best off finding this story on my livejournal under the same username)


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick update before I dash off. Hope you all like it.
> 
> I'm assuming I don't need to warn for sex any more if people have made it this far?

Greg walked out of the Yard and turned his collar up against the cold, resolutely ignoring the jitters in his stomach. Everything would be fine, just fine. He resisted the urge to run back inside for his gloves, lying forgotten in his desk drawer. Mycroft’s text had said the car was just around the corner so he wouldn’t have to suffer through winter’s last ditch efforts for long. Sure enough the discrete, only because every wealthy banker and politician in England drove one, black car pulled over in the space just a few feet away and Mycroft climbed out, holding the door open for Greg in his ridiculously pompous and formal way.

It was a good thing Greg had already started to move because at least that way when his legs went out from under him it looked like he tripped, rather than what actually happened which was a sudden absence of knees.

He’d been fine, he’d been totally fine, missing Mycroft, wanting to talk to Mycroft, feeling distinctly nervous about the demands he had to make tonight of Mycroft, but nothing that prepared him for the crackling jolt of need when he laid eyes on him. The raw need, the absolute drive to press Mycroft down and roll against him until Greg’s scent was indelibly etched into every pore exploded somewhere in his head and chest.

It was a good thing his knees had gone. Having to catch himself against the car prevented him doing something very stupid right there in the street.

“Gregory?” Mycroft took a concerned step towards him, eyes sweeping Greg top to toe trying to determine what was wrong.

“I’m fine.” Greg pushed off the bonnet before Mycroft touched him.

God only knows what he’d do if Mycroft touched him. He shoved his hands into his trouser pockets, more difficult to remove from than his overcoat, because Christ Almighty he needed all the help he could get.

He needed; holy hell he needed. He needed his hands on Mycroft’s skin, needed to caress the thin layer of skin between them and their child.

“Just tired. I think I hit a bit of a manic high. Must be crashing.” There was a tremor in his voice he couldn’t suppress and he hoped Mycroft got the message soon because he was almost out of stubborn, and he usually drew any additional resolve he required from his Alpha side. Here that would only make things infinitely worse because it was the Alpha who was craving.

“Indeed. It has been a trying week. Maybe if we drive?” Mycroft stood back to give Greg plenty of space to get into the car.

Thank Christ. They’d been meant to walk down to the Thai place only a couple of blocks over and Greg could not stop himself doing something stupid in such close proximity with Mycroft for that long.

Throwing himself into the car, Greg buried his head in the leather of the seat, breathing in phantom traces of Mycroft. He was barely aware of the uncomfortable position, squashed into the corner with the leather tacky against his suddenly sweaty cheeks. Breathe, just breathe. Control his thoughts, his breathing, then his actions.

He might have managed it better if Mycroft hadn’t climbed into the car and shut the door after him. Then burying his face in the leather became less about absorbing the reassuring scent and lingering warmth, and more about blocking both. He could not throw himself at Mycroft. Mycroft was iffy enough about this without Greg proving he had no self-control. Giving in would prove he was a liability. If he was a liability Mycroft would refuse to see him, or maybe revert to his original stance that this was too dangerous and terminate the baby anyway.

The baby, he had to do this for the baby. He could keep himself under control for the baby. He did not need to reach over there and run a hand under Mycroft’s suit stroking his skin while he buried his nose in Mycroft’s neck with all its addictive pheromones and...

Greg let out an involuntary whine and tried to curl tighter into a ball, fisted hands tucked up against his chest to prevent him reaching out.

“Gregory?” Mycroft’s voice was soft and concerned. It practically wrapped itself around Greg, a comforting and addictive blanket that pulled him over and –

No, he couldn’t. He couldn’t, he couldn’t, he couldn’t. He couldn’t risk the baby.

“My.” He choked out, not really aware of what he was saying. Talking was a secondary consideration after holding himself still. “I need...”

“Anything, Gregory. Anything you need.” There was a rarely heard bewilderment in Mycroft’s voice.

With a shove off the door Greg threw himself on the floor at Mycroft’s feet. If he’d been up to thinking he would have been thanking whoever chose the Government’s cars as the sinful amount of legroom meant there was space for him on the floor between Mycroft’s legs. Mycroft who was watching him with slowly dawning understanding that made no sense to Greg because _he_ didn’t know what he was doing, just that his fingers were moving, pushing back Mycroft’s jacket, stripping his waistcoat buttons and then he was laying his head on Mycroft’s shirt clad front.

Almost as soon as his cheek made contact with the fabric something in him eased and the pressure drained away. He sighed and nuzzled Mycroft, belatedly realising when Mycroft gave a slight start that what he was actually doing was working his nose between the shirt buttons to touch Mycroft’s skin.

His cold nose on Mycroft’s warm skin.

He wrapped his arms around Mycroft’s waist, let out a contented sigh, and went still.

A hand came to rest on his head and gently carded through his hair. “Better?”

Greg nodded and tightened his arms briefly before returning to the looser embrace. “I’m sorry, I swear I was fine and then I don’t know what-”

“It’s okay. I should have expected it.”

“Mm?”

Mycroft’s hand was still gently moving through his hair. Greg considered moving upwards so he could bury himself in that delightful spot on Mycroft’s neck that was producing that intoxicating scent, but he didn’t want to move.

Mycroft gave a light chuckle. “Think about where you are, Gregory.”

Kneeling on the floor of an absurdly expensive government issue car curled around Mycroft’s-

Oh.

Curled around Mycroft’s abdomen.

He tilted his head up and gave Mycroft a guilty smile. “Sorry.”

Mycroft’s expression was soft, which for him meant the slightest relaxing of muscles around the eyes. “It’s not your fault. In fact I do believe your reaction fairly inevitable.”

“What do you mean?” Greg frowned slightly. He should get back up on the seat and take the crick out of his neck, but that really wasn’t an option.

“Pheromones.” Mycroft sounded utterly exasperated, but given his fingers still stroked along Greg’s neck and hair, he obviously wasn’t put out with Greg. “Survival instinct. My ridiculous body is trying to ensure your utmost devotion to me and our offspring, thus guaranteeing protection while I’m... _vulnerable_.”

There was no mistaking the little moue of distaste at that word. Mycroft Holmes did not _do_ vulnerable.

“Protection?” Greg nuzzled Mycroft’s tummy again.

“Indeed. By now the foetus has pumped enough hormones through my system to make sure that I’m going to keep its best interests at the forefront of my mind, and survival guaranteed it’s now luring its Sire. Not,” Greg could feel a critical eye run over him, “that in this case he requires much luring, but it is an ancient instinct.”

Greg laughed softly into Mycroft’s belly. “Sorry.”

The car slid to a halt with the driver’s usual smooth precision (not that Greg knew who that was), but it was still enough for Greg to need to cling a little tighter to stop from over balancing. Mycroft didn’t say anything, but removed his hand from Greg’s hair.

Greg didn’t want to let go.

“Can we get takeaway?” He murmured into Mycroft’s belly.

“I suppose given your stumble outside the Yard it’s easy enough to say you’ve had a long and tiring week.”

Greg smiled contentedly, thinking ‘good, because I don’t want to have to not touch you that long’. He didn’t say it, wouldn’t do until he had worked out where they stood and what was and wasn’t part of their arrangement.

“You do, however, have to let go now so we can go and collect our order.”

There was light amusement in Mycroft’s voice and no exasperation so Greg pushed his luck with an overly exaggerated sigh before forcing himself to unwind his arms. It was certainly easier knowing he’d get to hold Mycroft again later.

_Might_ get to hold Mycroft again later. If the talk Greg needed to have with Mycroft didn’t sink this whole thing faster than a stone.

He pushed up on the seat, determined to ignore the gripping impulse to stay curled where he was, and started to manoeuvre to a more conventional seated position. Started because moving to a partially upright pose put his nose that much closer to Mycroft’s neck and he couldn’t resist breathing in deeply, savouring the slightly gingery, vaguely spiced scent. There was something different from when he last smelt Mycroft’s unique chemical signature, though he couldn’t quite put a finger on it. He took another not so subtle deep breath in.

And froze.

Pheromones. Pheromones and a scent designed to be noticed.

Oh. Shit.

“Mycroft? Mycroft, how to we-”

“There’s no issue, Gregory.” Mycroft was calm, but that meant squat. Last time Mycroft had said there was no problem he’d be about to terminate their baby without a single tear.

He hadn’t changed his mind, had he? Greg didn’t think he could handle it if Mycroft changed his mind.

“Gregory, **stop** panicking. It’s not an issue as you’re the only person who can detect them.”

Greg paused. “Really?”

“Yes, now if we might go inside?”

There was no dominance, but with the raised eyebrow it was clearly not a request and Greg scrambled off Mycroft as fast as he could. He’d already pushed his luck and would have to push it again before the night was out.

Did he? Did he really?

Yes, he couldn’t not. It wouldn’t be right.

Mycroft stepped elegantly out of the car and watching him Greg could see that he was right – despite the delicious scent rolling off him no one so much as gave him a third glance (unless he was trying to be inconspicuous, Mycroft usually warranted a second one).

Right, fine. Protective instincts satisfied, though not sated, he clambered out and followed Mycroft into the restaurant.

He wasn’t sure why. They both walked in, Mycroft requested their meal be packaged for takeaway, they walked out, plastic shopping bags of Thai swinging from their hands. Greg could have just stayed in the car and stewed, it would have been just as productive. It wasn’t even like they said anything during the brief wait – Mycroft fussed on his phone, Greg pretended to read one of the newspapers.

In reality he stewed anyway talking himself around in circles and feeling the sinking knot of guilt, panic and worry grow and cure and fester in the pit of his belly.

How could he do this? He was risking everything. What if this was what convinced Mycroft it was too hard, that they were too much trouble and he left? Especially if Greg couldn’t keep his hands to himself, which he almost hadn’t, and was essentially a massive security risk.

No, Mycroft wouldn’t leave and they needed to have this conversation.

But what if?

By the time they’d reached Greg’s house it felt like there was an honest to God lead ball in his stomach.

“Would you like to verbalise it?” Mycroft left the bags on the kitchen table and was unerringly locating bowls and cutlery for dinner.

His dinner. Greg insisted on eating takeaway the way it was meant to be eaten: out of the container with the plastic cutlery provided.

“Verbalise it?” Greg pulled a bottle of red out and took great pride in having clean wine glasses.

Mycroft may not have commented on the state of the flat, but the fact that it was properly clean rather than just vaguely presentable was an unexpected source of pride for Greg. He’d never been a slob by choice (though with the Job his choices were often limited), but he’d never been a neat freak who had to return a book to its allocated space on the bookshelf either, and to gain so much satisfaction from cleaning was new.

“Whatever is on your mind. Come now, Gregory,” he must have flinched, “it’s fairly obvious.” Mycroft filled his wine glass with water after a longing glace at the wine. Mycroft enjoyed a good wine, especially a nice red, and this was a good bottle. Mycroft had given it to Greg after all.

They should talk, get everything out in the open so if he wanted to, Mycroft could leave without having to spend the evening with Greg under false pretences.

“After dinner.”

Greg could still remember the horrified look on Mycroft’s face when, on his first visit to Greg’s flat with takeaway, Greg had walked through to the lounge and plonked himself down on the couch. He’d had a very good view of it when he’d craned his head around to see what was taking Mycroft so long. Naturally eating takeaway on the couch was nothing Mycroft had ever done before, though desks _were_ acceptable alternatives to tables, and Greg had just managed to prevent himself bursting into laughter at the ginger, awkward way Mycroft had lowered himself into the mismatched armchair. It made it all the more gratifying to see Mycroft carry his meal to the other room without waiting for Greg to insist.

There was no movie, there wasn’t always, and Greg wished wholeheartedly for one. He toyed with the idea of turning on the TV and finding something, anything, to create background noise.

Maybe John had been right; maybe things hadn’t been magically fixed. He didn’t remember these tense silences being part of their relationship. Silence, yes, they both regularly needed time to unwind and mentally readjust to a functioning social level after work, but that need for space had never been strained like this.

Maybe it was just Greg. Mycroft looked perfectly comfortable. It was Greg who couldn’t relax knowing he hadn’t even had this relationship a full week and he was going to push them well past firmly established boundaries. Boundaries that were very important to Mycroft, that were the _only_ reason Mycroft had agreed to give this a try. That decision had taken place back at the kitchen table at Mycroft’s, fast becoming Greg’s least favourite place in Mycroft’s house as it seemed to be their designated Serious Conversation spot.

There were surprising few things that had been non-negotiable, which just emphasised how serious each one actually was, and now after less than a week Greg was going to try and negotiate one of them.

He took a bite of his food and forced himself to swallow. Greg had no idea what he was eating, but then he rarely did. Even when Mycroft didn’t order ahead he had a habit of ordering in the ‘appropriate’ language, assuming the wait staff were native. Given the Bangkok Dream was an authentic Thai restaurant, and that Greg’s language skills did not extend past Europe, Greg never knew the names of his Thai dishes, let alone what was in it. It always tasted good and dishes he enjoyed more than others made more frequent reappearances, so he never bothered to ask or complain.

It had always been his guilty pleasure, allowing Mycroft to order his food. Pretending to be a Dom, as an _Alpha_ , he should have protested a lot more than he did, but once the power plays had ended and they were established as friends, the Alpha relaxed and the Sub _liked_ Mycroft making those sorts of decisions. It made him feel like Mycroft was taking care of him, as if he were _his_ Dom.

He took a bite and mixed the rice through, playing with his food. Eventually he forced himself to take another bite. He could feel the hard lump of food travel down his throat. It joined the hard ball rolling around his insides.

He chased a lump of...chicken (?) around the rice-curry mix. It wasn’t beef or lamb. Yeah, probably chicken. Mycroft wouldn’t order anything too exotic. Greg was just a working class punk rocker turned detective after all, and Mycroft knew his tastes didn’t run to the fancy. He’d take beef over venison, beer-battered flathead over salmon, and the more westernised the Chinese the better.

He’d seen Mycroft eat snails without balking. Mycroft had in fact _ordered_ them, though he called them escargot. Greg called them what they were – slimy molluscs drowning in garlic and butter and had been proud to remember the word molluscs.

Mycroft called him unadventurous.

Greg maintained he got enough adventure on the job and liked to know his food had once mooed, or baaed, or oinked, or clucked or squarked, or maybe even gobbled, rather than meowed or woofed or hissed ... or whatever sound it was crocodiles made.

Food stories were among the few things Mycroft could pass on regarding his overseas trips. You would never catch Greg eating camel or whale or drinking snake blood vodka, even if it was necessary to avoid a conflict spawning political insult.

 No, Greg liked his food safely westernised, from a farm, via an abattoir with appropriate prevention of animal cruelty regulations, and Mycroft knew that.

So chicken… chicken congealing in a gritty mess inside him.

Greg swallowed forcibly, food combining with stress and panic to produce a rather strong bout of nausea.

He wasn’t going to be able to eat anymore. It wasn’t like he was hungry anyway.

He moved the cooling mass around a bit more.

How was Mycroft going to take this? Greg really didn’t _think_ he’d do anything to the baby, not anymore, but he might, and he might certainly get rid of Greg. As far as the reproductive process went, Greg had made his contribution and if Mycroft thought having him around was too much of a problem, well, he didn’t _need_ Greg even if he kept the baby.

There was an audible sigh from the armchair and Mycroft’s plate, half empty (the curry a strange shade of green), appeared in Greg’s vision on the table.

He hurriedly shoved another fork load into his mouth.

“Gregory.”

He stubbornly took another bite and choked through an attempt to swallow.

He didn’t want to talk, didn’t want Mycroft to leave. Was it too much to ask for that evening, for _one_ night with Mycroft by his side as more than his friend? Couldn’t his life be good, be fixed for one week? Didn’t he deserve a week?

Two weeks? A month? Nine months?

He knew that path. Every copper did. Didn’t he deserve a drink (or two or three); didn’t that rule deserve to be bent because that perp killed that child and destroyed that family even if it couldn’t be proven in court (and that one, and that one).You couldn’t start, because after the first one, no matter what your intentions, you never stopped.

“We need to talk.” His mouth was dry so he swapped his uneaten takeaway for his glass of untouched wine and took a mouthful.

“So I have inferred. What is troubling you, Gregory?” Mycroft steepled his fingers and let his gaze fall gently on Greg. It was his ‘I’m listening’ pose for when he wasn’t maintaining his aloof political exterior.

Whether he wanted it or not, Greg had Mycroft’s full attention.

“I... we... we need to tell John, My.”

When it came out, it came out as an indistinct rush, but from the way Mycroft’s body went very, very still, he had understood.

“That was not part of the agreement.” Mycroft’s voice was as still as his body. It practically screamed danger. “In fact I do believe the agreement was we do not tell anyone, no matter what, and we do not even discuss the possibility.”

“It was.” Greg admitted, heart hammering in his chest.

“So why are we discussing it?” Despite the lift at the end of the sentence, there was no real question in the hard and unyielding voice.

“John and Sherlock came and visited me.”

“Yesterday at approximately two pm. Yes, I am aware.”

Greg loosened his grip on his wineglass. He didn’t own so many he could afford to shatter one. “I felt awful Mycroft.”

“You knew this would involve an element of deception. I was under the impression that to you this was worth it.” His hands had moved since Greg last looked up, and the presence of one of them resting across Mycroft’s middle could not be coincidental.

“Yes, it is, anything.” Anything for their little baby.

“Then I fail to see the need for this conversation. You have accepted that you want the child, the guilt is an unfortunate, but necessary, side effect.” Mycroft took a small sip of his water. Greg wondered whether he wished it was wine.

He wished his was scotch.

“I’m not asking – I don’t mean me, Mycroft. I will hate myself for it, but I would lie to the Queen for you.” He took a deep breath. “But I agreed to this. Sherlock didn’t.”

“Sherlock?” There was a slight give in Mycroft’s tone following Greg’s affirmation of loyalty.

Greg didn’t dare hope Mycroft had been as nervous about the possibility of losing Greg as Greg was about him.

“He practically had to lie to John, Mycroft. If John pushes at all, Sherlock will have to.”

“Yes.” Mycroft’s affirmation was simply that: a short, bland acknowledgement.

“To John.”

“Yes.”

“And you think he will?”

“Yes.” There was a firmness behind the word that had been lacking from Mycroft’s other responses. “You need not worry about exposure from Sherlock, Gregory.”

“That’s what I’m worried about!” Greg exploded, leaping out of his chair. “He’s stupidly, _recklessly_ stubborn and he _will_ keep your secret until he breaks. Not,” he narrowed his eyes in Mycroft’s direction, “that I suspect he has a choice about it.”

Mycroft clearly understood the insinuation, but made no comment, as good as confirming Greg’s theory that at one stage or another, Sherlock had had that command dommed into him. “If you are not worried about him keeping our secret then-”

“Because we are forcing him to lie to his _Bonded_ , Mycroft, his Bonded who has trust issues.”

Mycroft said nothing.

“Bonding doesn’t guarantee a successful relationship.”

A stillness settled over Mycroft’s body and without moving he was suddenly very threatening. “I am well aware of that, Gregory.”

There was clearly something there and Greg scrawled it down on his ‘Topics not to bring up’ mental list.

“We might destroy his relationship.” He pressed, keeping his voice as devoid of the anger and guilt he felt as possible. Experience showed Holmeses normally reacted better to facts and logic than emotional entreaties.

There was the slightest flinch, the tiniest break in Mycroft’s demeanour.

“Mycroft,” Greg dropped to his knees next to Mycroft’s leg and placed a hand gently on his thigh. Doms, with very few exceptions, responded most favourably when given the high ground and the appearance, or reality, of power. Given what was at stake, Greg’s pride could handle it. “Sherlock is happy. He’s actually happy and in love with John and so ridiculously obsessed with his collar he won’t even be without it to clean it. He puts on another one so his neck’s not bare even for the fifteen minutes it takes to buff it to some stupid level of shine.”

Mycroft had lost some of the stiffness and a fond smile was trying to tug the corner of his mouth upwards. Sherlock really was Mycroft’s biggest, almost only, weakness.

“Mycroft, we could _destroy_ that.”

The twitch around Mycroft’s mouth was no longer a smile and his fingers had curled tightly into the chair.

“John won’t take Sherlock hiding this from him lightly, and if he asks more questions and Sherlock _lies_ , you can’t be in a Bound relationship without trust Mycroft, Bonded or not. Sherlock will lose John, and you know as well as I if that happens, we’ll lose Sherlock to suicide in a week or a drug overdose in a month, no matter how closely you watch him.” Greg tightened his grip on Mycroft’s leg. “I don’t think I’m over exaggerating to say if we don’t do this, we are gambling with Sherlock’s life.”

“I would look after him.” Mycroft murmured.

Greg noticed Mycroft didn’t bother to argue that John would never leave. John was a good Alpha and an amazing Dom. That there was anyone who could handle Sherlock ‘dynamic, who cares about dynamic, just do as I say’ Holmes was miraculous. That there would ever be anyone else was, well, impossible. John Watson, RAMC – discharged, was unique, 100% unique. No one else could handle the body parts, let alone Sherlock’s fierce independence and propensity for trouble. John loved him for them.

Loving him wouldn’t be enough. Being Bonded wouldn’t be enough. Trust was essential; you couldn’t take or give control of a life without it. Subs had to trust their Doms to look after them, to take their bodies, hearts and souls and keep them safe. They had to trust that should they be requested they would be restored to them in the same condition they were surrendered in or better. Doms had to trust that their Subs wanted, that when their Sub was gone from their sight they would stay safe or go to their Dom for help. They had to trust that if they needed it their Subs would safeword out and not let their Doms go too far.

Trust was more important between Alpha-Omega Bonded pairs than any other gender combination. Alphas were biologically tied to their mates; their very DNA coded to protect, provide, and defend. Utter focus, utter devotion, a _need_ that couldn’t be explained to wrap themselves around every facet of their Omega’s life. The only thing that kept the base urges in check was trust – trust that the Omega was theirs and no one else would interfere, that their Omega would give them everything and not hold anything back so they could guard, nurture, and worship.

Sherlock withholding what he knew from John when he’d specifically asked about it, even if Sherlock didn’t lie, struck right at the heart of that trust, especially given the extraordinary levels of freedom from John’s interference in his life Sherlock enjoyed, solely on the basis that now they were together, Sherlock _would_ go to John when he needed.

It wasn’t that there were never lies in relationships, but this secret somehow carried a gravitas with it so an outright lie would shake the all-important bedrock, not just wisp past as daily life. This was outright, planned, deliberate deception.

Greg knew this; Mycroft knew this; Sherlock knew this and was terrified.

John was a good Dom, but Sherlock was not a good Sub and this could just be one shake too many to their relatively new foundations.

“You could look after him to all the best of your abilities, with all your resources and you couldn’t save him from that. Keep him away from drugs, he’ll make his own or slit his wrists. Lock him away from anything and everything, and he’ll refuse to eat. Force feed him and he’ll will himself to death anyway. You know he could.”

There was no doubt in Greg’s mind that that was exactly what Sherlock would do. John would probably recover enough to try and trust Sherlock again, but Sherlock would be long dead. His personality was addictive and obsessive and he’d replaced drugs with John, and this time would die from withdrawal.

“It’s not safe.” Mycroft murmured again. He wasn’t looking at Greg, face turned slightly, staring into midair.

Greg morbidly wondered whether he was looking at his brother’s grave. His line of sight appeared the right height for a tombstone.

“You’ve given John a government security clearance, My. He’s Bonded to your brother, and even if he wasn’t, he wouldn’t run his mouth off. You know this.” The fabric caught slightly on Greg’s fingers as he slid them gently along the thigh they rested on. “If we were going to trust anyone, it would be John.”

Mycroft made a non-committal sound deep in the back of his throat.

“I know you trust him or he’d never have got within ten feet of Sherlock. Why don’t you want to tell him, really?” Greg tried to coax a response, but Mycroft merely sat in meditative silence.

Finally, he sighed. “Only him.”

Greg couldn’t keep the smile off his face.

“You’re correct, there is no logical reason not to tell Dr Watson and every reason to.” Mycroft’s face was carefully impassive.

“Why are you so reluctant to tell him?” Greg pressed.

“I’ve already agreed to, Gregory.”

“You’re not worried he’ll let slip are you, because there is no way John would every betray-”

“John Watson is a paradigm of loyalty.”

Greg paused. He didn’t _think_ Mycroft was being sarcastic.

“Then-”

“I do not wish to discuss it. We will tell John Watson, absolutely no one else.” Mycroft’s fingers had unclenched and now drummed restlessly on the arm of his chair.

Greg nodded and kept his mouth shut. His throat felt suspiciously full and he realised his own fingers were shaking on Mycroft’s thigh.

Ah, adrenaline rush.

He’d known intellectually about the heady rush Subs experienced when they challenged their Doms. As a policeman he’d dealt with Subs who panicked and ran, driven purely by the chemical influx, all the more potent for over powering their Doms, not merely defying them. He’d always looked down on them and been angry at them for perpetuating the stereotype.

Maybe, he decided clenching his hands into fists, he’d been too hard on them. He’d challenged Mycroft, not defied or attacked him, yet his head felt floaty and disconnected making it hard to think and he couldn’t stop the manic urge to do... he couldn’t even tell. Laugh? Cry? Hyperventilate? All he knew is his limbs felt heavy and tingly and he needed to move, move, move.

It would almost be addictive this high, except for the rolling blackness in his stomach that was partially guilt, partially nerves, partially nausea and mostly chicken curry that threatened to choke him with every strangled gasp. It was different to subspace, more like the high druggies described off some of the new designer drugs, and it was suddenly much easier to understand how a Sub could become a serial killer if it meant this power trip with every one of their Doms they killed.

Was that how Moriarty started? The ugly blackness probably wouldn’t bother the crazy psychopath Switch.

Christ, he and Mycroft weren’t even in a formalised relationship. Did they have to be? Being Bound was a different sort of relationship to being Bonded with no connective element on a physical or mental level. Maybe it was enough that they’d played together, maybe it was enough Greg wanted, maybe he wasn’t getting a full dose of the adrenal reaction.

Greg tried to tamp it down. Mycroft wasn’t happy, but he had agreed and he wasn’t unhappy either. He wasn’t going to leave Greg, even for pushing one of the unpushables because it had been for Sherlock who was the most important thing in Mycroft’s world so it was fine and he wouldn’t sever whatever _thing_ they had despite Greg’s collapse in control earlier and the fact he _could not stop shaking!_

Would he? He wouldn’t.

Please?

“Gregory.” Fingers gently lifted his chin. A thumb smoothed over his cheek.

Greg kept his eyes closed and bit into his lip to keep from letting out a needy whine.

It was stupid, ridiculous. He was his own person; he was an Alpha; he was a DI. He did not need reassurance and mollycoddling just because he’d had a different opinion to Mycroft and stood his ground. They’d had arguments before, they’d undoubtedly have them again, and Greg would not let himself turn into a wet blanket to be walked over whenever Mycroft chose.

His body wanted the reassurance and he’d leant into the simple touch before he’d even realised.

“ **Up**.” Mycroft’s voice was gentle despite the command. It was grounding and helped Greg find his bearings as he scrambled to his feet.

Mycroft steered him carefully around the table and lowered himself onto one end of the couch.

“ **Sit.** ”

Each dominant order soothed something in Greg, though it did nothing for his physical symptoms. He collapsed gracelessly onto the sofa cushions halfway between the end and Mycroft, wanting to be pressed close against his lover/partner/Dom/friend, but feeling like he had to keep his space.

It was stupid. Before any of this if he’d got Mycroft out of his preferred armchair and onto the couch he would have tucked up right next to him to share a blanket or sat at the other end and pulled Mycroft’s feet onto his knees (or shoved his across Mycroft’s). Now their relationship was technically more and he was keeping his distance, unsure what to do.

Hands guided him down until he was curled up, head resting in Mycroft’s lap. Finger started carding through Greg’s hair and like in the car earlier the tension slowly began to seep out of Greg’s body.

“I’m not going to leave because you brought it up.”

In a second all the remaining tension leaked out of Greg’s body and his muscles became jelly.

Thank Christ.

“This time you were correct.”

This time- unspoken warning not to bring it up again. That was fine, Greg had no desire to test his luck on another occasion.

He sighed and turned his head slightly so his nose was buried in Mycroft’s thigh. Mycroft kept gently stoking his hair. It was tempting, so tempting, to roll over and press his lips to Mycroft’s vest, but he was comfortable, so comfortable, and apparently merely basking in Mycroft’s presence was enough to deaden the pheromone induced drive to become a human octopus.

He breathed in deeply, trying to detect the delicious scent through Mycroft’s suit trousers, but it wasn’t a highly active scent region and so it was impossible to smell anything through Mycroft’s clothes.

“Are you really safe?” He mumbled, tucking one hand between Mycroft’s leg and the sofa.

“Yes.” Mycroft’s hand drifted to the nape of Greg’s neck. “It’s a biological imperative designed to protect me. Informing the world I was compromised would be counterproductive.”

“Just me then?” Greg asked for confirmation.

“Just you, any family Alphas, of which there are none, and Sherlock, though I don’t believe he will experience it the same way. My research indicates it’s meant to make Omega family members more inclined to feeding and hugging and other such behaviours, which are not things Sherlock engages in so I am confident the effect will be limited.”

Greg nodded. He’d suspected that Mycroft’s Sire was dead, but the Omega never spoke about his family. For all Greg knew there were other Holmes siblings running around terrorising the world. He didn’t even know Mummy’s name or what sort of Omega he was. Going by Mycroft and Sherlock’s general attitudes towards... well... everything, he didn’t think Mummy would be particularly prone to physical affection or interested in casual family trips to the beach, but he didn’t know. Maybe Mummy was actually a rather sweet and flighty Omega and their Sire had been strict.

Now wasn’t the time to ask as, sensing Greg was composed, Mycroft nudged him off his lap and returned to his armchair and meal. With his stomach finally unknotted enough to feel how long it was since he last ate, Greg decided it wasn’t a bad idea. He’d rather Mycroft had stayed on the couch to eat, but....

He picked up his curry and took a mouthful. It took some dedication to swallow.

“Microwave?”

“If you would please.” Mycroft held out his bowl.

Greg collected the meals and strolled back to the kitchen. Walking felt strange. He felt so light, as if his limbs were floating. He hadn’t realised how much everything had been weighing him down.

He couldn’t help the self-satisfied smirk at the kitchen (he really was impressed with himself over how clean it was) while he waited. He could hear quiet movement in the next room, the sort of quiet that arose from someone naturally soft-footed, not the harsh silence of someone trying to be quiet to hide their movements.

Retrieving the meals from the microwave he snagged the bottle of red off the table and mozied back to the lounge. Mycroft had re-seated himself, sans jacket, and the DVD menu for Yes, Minister waited in the background on mute.

Greg smiled as he handed Mycroft his food. Convincing Mycroft to watch a comedy about politics had taken a huge amount of work, but he’d absorbed it with a worrying intensity. The only verbal feedback Greg had ever had was an ‘it’s so accurate’ after the first episode, which sadly confirmed many of Greg’s theories about government, and since then it had almost become Mycroft’s go to selection when they felt like TV, but didn’t have anything to watch.

It was normal. Refreshingly so.

They watched a few episodes, Greg laughing aloud as Hacker tried to triumph Subs in the Civil Service only to be told to buzz off by the Subs, and poor Bernard tried his best to serve both Humphrey and Hacker, both the older Alphas firmly believing he would do as they said.

Greg appreciated the one liners. He had the nasty feeling Mycroft used the show for inspiration and occasionally took notes.

It was after the third episode finished that they both wordlessly decided one AM was late enough. Mycroft bent to put his shoes back on, unfortunately moving his leg from where it had been placed against Greg’s, and started to re-button his shirt collar. Greg procrastinated handing the tie back, having snared it from the chair arm, and ran the navy silk through his fingers. It made Mycroft look so formal, the charcoal grey suit and the navy tie. Greg resolved to buy him a gag tie or two. Something with a completely inappropriate image on the front. Mycroft would never wear it, but still.

He heaved off the couch and slung the tie around Mycroft’s neck. Now that he was leaving, Greg felt a sudden need to touch. He didn’t try to tie the tie, there was no way he’d manage to Mycroft’s satisfaction, and collected the jacket instead so he could help Mycroft into it. Mycroft didn’t say anything about the lingering caresses as Greg smoothed the material, and even imparted a few pointed touches of his own that raised goosebumps up and down Greg’s chest.

The touches continued as they moved towards the door – a hand ghosting along the small of the back, fingers mushing against thighs, hips bumping into each other with every step.

They stopped at the door. Greg retrieved Mycroft’s umbrella, propped at the ready next to the door, and passed it over, fingers sliding down the back of Mycroft’s hand and curling loosely around his wrist before falling away. Mycroft’s spare hand held the fabric of Greg’s trousers pinched between two fingers, pulling it tight across his bum and cutting lightly into his leg.

Mycroft was in shoes. Greg wasn’t. Not that it mattered given the distance between them was so slight. Greg was going cross-eyed trying to focus on Mycroft’s face.

He kept expecting Mycroft to move away, take the step back and say good bye, see you next week.

He didn’t.

So they stood there, and stood there, chests almost touching as they inhaled.

“You _can_ kiss me.” The words were so soft they were little more than exhales dancing over Greg’s skin.

“Thank God.”

Greg’s arm encircled Mycroft’s waist, his other hand moving to Mycroft’s hair. The umbrella landed with a clatter on the floor as Mycroft simultaneously moved his hold to Greg’s neck, pulling him closer with his fabric holding fingers, changing grip from trouser to arse.

There was no press of lips. Their tongues met in an open and desperate kiss, Mycroft’s plunging straight into Greg’s pliant mouth to duel frantically with Greg’s own. Greg yielded for a couple more strokes before pressing forward with his tongue to taste Mycroft’s mouth while shoving him backwards against the wall.

Mycroft tasted like he smelt: gingery with lingering spices from the curry that started the edges of Greg’s tongue burning. Mycroft matched him stroke for stroke and twined sensuously around Greg’s tongue while it explored his mouth. The hand on Greg’s arse manoeuvred him sideways and suddenly he could feel Mycroft’s erection pressed hard against his hip.

That earned Mycroft’s lips a nip, quickly soothed away with long lavish caresses. Mycroft retaliated by biting Greg’s lower lip and sucking hard until it was verging on the wrong side of painful. It tingled as the suction stopped and light nips were applied to the swollen flesh with serious dedication.

Greg moaned and ground his body into Mycroft’s, trying to get them both the friction they craved. His mouth was released as Mycroft took a hissing breath and he trailed kisses up Mycroft’s neck, not letting himself stop to bite or suck until he reached Mycroft’s ear in case he left rather distinctive marks. Instead he rolled the earlobe between his teeth and suckled lightly. His tongue massaged the spot directly behind the ear that sent the little spasms through Mycroft’s body causing the irregular gaps in their rhythm as Mycroft rutted against Greg’s deliberately propped leg.

The breathy whispers were glorious, and Greg was so invested in drawing every last one possible out of Mycroft from this one spot that he missed Mycroft’s signals until he was shoved forcibly downwards. That one was fairly clear and he arranged his knees comfortably while fumbling with Mycroft’s belt. The button followed, giving up more quickly than the leather covering it, yielding with barely a twitch of Greg’s fingers.

“Use your teeth.” Mycroft’s voice was barely above a needy whisper.

Greg pulled his hands away from the zip and after a scant moment of consideration laced them loosely behind his back. The twist as Mycroft’s cock responded to the sight was visible through the still closed trousers.

Using his tongue to collect the tab, Greg slowly dragged the zip down, tortuous inch by tortuous inch until the trousers parted. The sound of the metal teeth unthreading was a sharp counterpoint to the soft and breathy tones since they’d sat down at the TV. Using his nose and teeth, Greg managed to feed Mycroft through the fly of his pants, resisting the urge to tease and mouth him through the material in favour of satisfying far stronger desires.

Greg started at the base, dragging the tip of his tongue along the pulsing vein until he reached the head where a drop of clear liquid already balanced precariously on the tip. In one very slow and drawn out motion Greg licked across the glans and collected the drop.

Mycroft’s hand settled in his hair, but it didn’t push him closer. He was allowed to take his time then.

Greg leant forward and carefully let Mycroft’s prick glide past his lips as far into his mouth as it was possible to go without touching the sides of his mouth or his throat. It took a lot of work to hover there with no hands to stabilise himself, but all those sit ups had to do some good and he was able to draw out the pause until Mycroft’s fingers flexed in silent command on his head. Then he closed the gap, not with his lips, but his teeth and lightly dragged them back up the shaft.

Mycroft shivered.

Greg ran his tongue around the head and corkscrewed it as far as he could without taking Mycroft back into his mouth. Another bead of musky pre-come squeezed out the tip and he collected that too.

He couldn’t be sure, but he thought Mycroft tasted different now to when he was in Heat. Less musk, but stronger flavours.

It was as addictive as his scent.

With agonising slowness Greg pressed kisses from the glans to the base of the reddened flesh and back again, fluttering his lips against the thin sheath of skin in little barely there butterfly kisses. The pheromones were definitely stronger here.

“ **Gregory**.” Mycroft’s voice was soft and breathless, but had a definite growl as a base note.

Greg smiled cheekily, turned his face up to look at Mycroft, and finally took him properly into his mouth.

Mycroft’s head thumped back against the wall and he let out a sound that might have been “Yes” or might have been a groan as Greg’s lips closed firmly around his cock and _sucked_.

Greg turned his attention fully to the hot, hard length in his mouth, ignoring his own throbbing prick still uncomfortably trapped in his trousers. It had been a very long time since he’d done this, discounting last Saturday, and he wanted to make it good. Needed to make it good.

Sealing his lips, he sucked lightly and let his tongue dance over and around the length in his mouth. There was a texture difference, he discovered, between the main shaft, which felt velvety under his tongue, and the head, which felt smoother and firmer. He went back again and again, testing the difference with tongue and teeth, laving his tongue across the fraenum, and licking as far down the shaft as he could.

It wasn’t enough.

Experimentally he leant forward, taking Mycroft deep enough to almost hit the back of his throat, then pulled back. It was a lot harder than he remembered, which he blamed on the lack of hands, but he managed to establish a slow, burning pattern and gradually increased his suction. Back and forward, back and forward, it was too hard to keep using his tongue the way he had been so instead he ran it up the base of the shaft on the pull off and flicked it over the head once in range. From the convulsive spasm of the fingers in his hair that was good.

Greg sped up. His own erection was becoming almost painful and he longed to at least undo his trousers to let it free, but he’d placed his hands where they were and as a point of pride he couldn’t take them away. All he could do was work Mycroft faster towards his end so Greg could relieve some of the pressure soon.

“Gregory.” Mycroft’s voice was a strained sigh and his hips jerked forward hitting the back of Greg’s throat. Greg gagged, but resolutely drove forward again and tried to relax.

It was difficult. In the intervening years he’d lost the easy control that would allow him to take someone’s cock down his throat and let them fuck his face with abandon, but he wanted it. He didn’t know why, but the thought of Mycroft’s cock pounding into his mouth while he just took it... He moaned, and tried, and gagged again.

“ **Relax**.”

Dominance. Greg felt his whole body go soft as muscles lost their tension in response to the command. The hand on his head instantly became controlling and Greg found himself with his nose in Mycroft’s pubic hair, every last inch of his cock buried deep in Greg’s throat and mouth.

The muscles in his throat spasmed uncontrollably and Greg fought back the need to vomit. Perversely it became easier when Mycroft became to move and Greg’s attention was split between the discomfort and how glorious it felt. He could barely breathe, each of Mycroft’s thrusts felt like it was cutting off his air supply, spit was dribbling liberally out the corners of his mouth, and a few tears rolled down his cheeks, but the feeling of being so full, the heavy press against his tongue, the stretch around Mycroft’s girth, the taste, and with every thrust being forced to bury his nose in those scintillating pheromones, was better than anything. He felt himself begin to unwind and sink into his body, detaching from his senses and he fell towards Subspace and surrendered his body to Mycroft.

It wasn’t possible to properly moan around the intrusion, but Greg tried anyway.

“Gregory, so close.” If possible Mycroft sped up. His movements were certainly jerkier, testimony to his coming unhinged. “So, so... Gregory!”

With an expletive Mycroft came thrust deep in his throat, giving Greg no option but to swallow his release. Greg suspected that he would have anyway (he had last time). Mycroft didn’t hold Greg in place, which meant as soon as Greg started to splutter and choke he was able to pull off the slowly softening organ, though not without one last suck on the way, and take a proper breath.

The visual was glorious. Mycroft Holmes splayed against the wall in his perfect suit and precisely done tie, the only flaws in his appearance the spots of colour high on his cheekbones, slightly swollen lips, and his undone and revealing trousers. It made him look all the more debauched for being almost completely unruffled.

Greg moaned and moved his hand quickly to his trousers. He needed to come now. It wouldn’t take much, a couple of strokes, but he was too turned on to be embarrassed.

“ **No**.” Mycroft’s order stopped him before he reached the button.

Greg’s eyes flew up to Mycroft’s, half lidded and sated, yet still gleaming and hungry.

“The next time you come Gregory it will be in my bed after I’ve spent an hour riding you, not a second before.”

Greg whined. Yes, oh please, yes.

“Two weeks, Gregory.”

No, please no.

“Two weeks before you move in and I take you to my bed and ride you through the mattress. You may not come before then. You may touch yourself, tease yourself, play with yourself, but you may not orgasm.”

Greg leant, he preferred that to toppled, forward and pressed his forehead into Mycroft’s hip. He could feel his dick throbbing in his pants. It was unbearable, he needed, he needed...

“Two weeks, Gregory.” Long fingers gently tilted his chin up to meet Mycroft’s eyes, and bugger it all if the order, the idea of submitting to Mycroft’s wishes even when the Omega himself wasn’t present, wasn’t turning him on more and making the problem in his pants even more pressing. “You can be good, can’t you?”

“Yes, Master.” His voice was raspy after the abuse to his throat. He just knew every time he spoke for the next few days he’d think of this moment, kneeling at Mycroft’s feet, well used and submitting to his Dom’s pleasure over his own, and would have to fight down an erection.

From the shark’s grin, Mycroft knew it too.

He tilted his head back down and concentrated on breathing until Mycroft gently prodded him and he roused himself enough to fix Mycroft’s trousers.

“You’re a lot better at that than I thought you would be.” Mycroft remarked conversationally.

There was a definite question in his voice and a fair amount of snark. Greg chuckled. Mycroft hated not knowing anything, but loved being surprised.

“Guess my file doesn’t have everything in it.” He slid the belt buckle back into place.

“You were married to a woman and have shown a clear secondary interest in their gender.”

“Yes.” Reluctantly Greg pushed up to standing. Both knees cracked loudly and painfully. He really was too old for kneeling on hard floors.

“Even with my command you should not have been able to take me so easily without practice, which speaks to significant experience with Beta Submissives.”

“I did have a life before I was married. I had a fairly wild youth.” Greg retrieved the umbrella though Mycroft showed no inclination towards moving.

Either Greg’s not quite amateur blow job skills were that fascinating or this was his idea of pillow talk, and Greg couldn’t recall enough of their encounters during heat to say which for sure.

“I am aware,” of course Mycroft was aware, “but you clearly have some experience with deep throating, though some time ago, which is highly unusual for a Dominant, or someone pretending to be one.” Mycroft held out his hand for the umbrella and used it to pull Greg closer.

Apparently even Mycroft Holmes was tactile after sex, and the little touches were not helping Greg beat down his own neglected erection.

He sighed. “I told my Sub I didn’t feel comfortable asking anything like that of them without experiencing it in case I accidently pushed too far. I liked it, he, amazingly, liked it, so we did it several time. It was my last Beta relationship. It was...” Greg hesitated, unsure how to say it.

“Too easy to forget the role you were supposed to be playing and let some of your true Submissive nature show through, so you left him and restricted yourself to female partners as you are less attracted to them and so less likely to forget yourself during a session.” There was smug satisfaction in Mycroft’s voice. Mystery of the half-arsed blow job skills solved.

“Basically.” There’s been one too many close calls and Greg had broken it off. He could still remember the Beta’s name – Ryan Northy. If Ryan remembered him it was undoubtedly as the strangest Alpha he’d ever met, which wasn’t far off true.

“Indeed, well then.” Mycroft pushed off the wall and donned his great coat in one smooth motion. “I will see you tomorrow, Gregory.”

Greg looked at him in confusion. He knew his brain was slow, a good proportion of his blood and attention being otherwise occupied, but he didn’t remember that. “Tomorrow?”

Not that he was complaining, but, tomorrow?

“Yes, of course. Four thirty, 221B Baker Street.”

“We’re telling John tomorrow?” Greg trailed Mycroft to the door.

“No time like the present.”

For an Omega who hadn’t wanted to say anything, Mycroft could move very fast.

“Oh, okay.” He opened the door to take away the awkward question of a good night kiss. As expected the black car was idling outside. “See you tomorrow.”

Mycroft favoured Greg with a full body sweep and a pointed quirked eyebrow. “Sleep well.”

He turned and was gone.

The erection Greg had been doing a good job at getting rid of was back.

“Bastard.” He hissed and resolutely shut the door knowing it would be a long night.

So when Mycroft, looking perfectly refreshed and smiling genially, met him on the steps of 221 in a cloud of provocative ginger and remarked that Greg really needed to get more sleep, he looked so tired and was working too hard again, it was all Greg could do to restrain himself to a whispered “I really hate you”.

Mycroft smiled patronisingly, the smile favoured by parents giving their children the ‘yes dear, now brush your teeth before bed’ look, fully aware that Greg would do absolutely anything for him and still love him for it.

“Ready for this?” Greg asked, keeping his hands in his pockets to make sure he didn’t touch.

Mycroft’s face changed to impassive, suggesting to Greg that the answer to that was no. Fair enough, Greg wasn’t sure he was either.

“Here we go.”

And he knocked.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Evening everyone. Sorry for those who didn't see the Sunday update. I was so tired at the end I completely forgot to notify that I'd put it up. 
> 
> Hopefully you all like this one.
> 
> Warnings for oblique references to past child abuse

John shuffled past his lover, forcing himself gamely between the kitchen chair and the bench on his way back to the sitting room with his fresh cup of tea. Exactly what Sherlock was doing that involved so much stuff that the kitchen table had had to be moved he wasn't sure. He wasn't even sure what was equipment and what were samples, or even whether they were connected to why Sherlock was peering through the microscope now. It was entirely possible he'd moved the table for the light and it was all just junk.

He let his fingers trail along the back of Sherlock's chair as he passed by, but made no contact with his Sub. Sherlock was concentrating and would not appreciate being distracted by touch at a critical point in his venture. Whenever Sherlock was disturbed, it was _always_ a critical point in his venture.

John settled into his armchair with a sigh. There were no cases, Sherlock wasn't bored enough to be destructive, his blog was up to date, and he couldn't clean the flat until Sherlock's latest mess making enterprise was concluded. It was one of those days and times he could just relax.

Except he couldn't.

Unlike Sherlock, John actually understood what Mycroft meant when he claimed to worry constantly. It was all part of being an Alpha Dom, the driving imperative to protect what was yours, and the more Dominant the Alpha the more that was considered 'mine'. If John and Sherlock hadn't Bonded there would likely have been some clashes between him and Mycroft resulting from competing claims on the Omega, but the short time between relationship and Bonding had circumvented that as even a more Dominant Alpha had to cede to a Bond claim, and before their relationship had commenced John had refrained through great strength of will from laying a competing claim on his flatmate.

You didn't claim fellow Alphas. As Sherlock's elder brother, Mycroft's territorial claim over the Detective could, at a stretch, be justified, though such a thing would usually have petered out with puberty. Mycroft being Mycroft (and Sherlock being Sherlock) John hadn't even thought to question why Mycroft actively considered Sherlock _his_ despite their ages. Discovering that Sherlock was an Omega had turned the protectiveness from unusual to expected and even approved of.

John sighed and sipped his tea. You didn't claim fellow Alphas, but that didn't make it any easier to reign in his protective and possessive instincts when it came to people he cared about, and Greg was definitely a person he cared about. Plus, for some reason it was harder to restrain himself regarding Greg. Not impossible, just difficult. Different.

He tried, he definitely tried. He hadn't raced straight over when Molly had first shared the latest gossip filtered down from the Yard about DI Lestrade's gambling problems. Greg was an Alpha and a Dom in his own right and would not appreciate being smothered by his younger friend. He'd learnt that lesson the hard way with Harry, who may not have been an Alpha, but was a reasonably dominant Dom and had resented John's childish attempts to protect her their whole childhood. It had not improved with age. Maybe John could have managed to scale back his protectiveness; maybe John could give Harry a bit more space, _if Harry would just pull her life together!_

He knew she hated it, but he worried.

The news that Greg was so badly off that he was being forced to sell his flat had been too much, but as expected Greg had not appreciated John's interference and so John had backed off. Greg obviously was getting things in hand, but the whole situation settled like an unscratchable itch between John's shoulder blades.

He wouldn't hover; he wouldn't make such an obvious mistake with Greg having already made it with Harry.

But he wanted to.

But he wouldn't.

But he wanted to.

There was a knock on the door downstairs and he could hear Mrs Hudson fussing her way to answer it.

He took another sip of tea and craned his head back to look at Sherlock, instinctive smile touching his lips. He'd never thought he'd have a Bonded Omega, but here he was Bonded to probably the most unusual Omega in London, no, the world.

"You're looking at me." Sherlock's deep baritone rumbled across the gap between them as his fingers nimbly switched slides under the microscope.

"Yes, sorry, is it distracting?" John was never sure what was distracting for Sherlock. It seemed to change capriciously at rather frequent intervals.

Sherlock turned his head and sent a warm smile John's way. "No, it's fine."

John let his smile grow. He loved these times, when they weren't running around frantically, but neither of them (Sherlock) was suffering from an overload of nervous energy. In these short windows, after one satisfactory case, but before the next, Baker Street seemed quiet, content, like the whole world could disappear and they'd never notice.

His heart gave an insistent throb and John bit his lip. Moments like these, pauses in life, let him feel exactly how much he loved Sherlock, and it frightened him sometimes how intense his emotions were when they rose up from the depths of his heart, kept safe away from interference in John's everyday life lest he drive Sherlock away by being too overbearing. Right then he felt the strongest urge to go over, run his fingers through Sherlock's hair and take him to bed until John scent covered his skin, the need to hold him and remind him with tongue and teeth that he was John's, John's, John's.

He turned his head back to the main room. Those intense bursts of feeling always left him morose, an aching emptiness in his chest because they always triggered thoughts of Sherlock lounging dramatically on the couch cradling his slightly swollen stomach demanding tea or prancing around the flat, belly rotund, carrying their child.

He wanted their child. He knew it wasn't just up to him and that a baby wouldn't fit with their lifestyle, but that didn't stop him imagining what their son would look like. Dark hair, dominant genetic trait, but maybe lightened to brown like Harry's was naturally if not all the way up to John's dirty blonde. Curls, he hoped their child got Sherlock's gorgeous curls, and his cheekbones...and his eyes and his height and his mind and hell, just a miniature Sherlock.

Their miniature Sherlock.

Their miniature Sherlock with John's EQ and some manners.

It wouldn't happen. Really it _shouldn't,_ given that an ADD genius and an adrenaline junkie were probably the two least qualified people in the world to raise a child, but John couldn't stop hoping. It had been almost nine months since Sherlock's last Heat so there would hopefully be one soon and maybe this time -

There was a knock. Apparently the visitors were for them and John had missed the footsteps on the stairs.

"Coming." He put his tea aside and went and opened the door. It wasn't people he expected. "Greg, Mycroft, come in."

This, John thought as he ushered them through to the sitting area and offered tea, was unusual. Even though he knew Greg and Mycroft were good friends, actually seeing them together was rare. Most of their socialising was done one on one, and it probably didn't help that Sherlock and Mycroft only really socialised with each other under duress. If Mycroft wanted something he kidnapped John or barged into Baker Street to annoy Sherlock into submission. He didn't just drop in for afternoon tea without a reason.

Which begged the question, what was the reason he was here now and how did Greg come into it?

There were two obvious options, each as likely as the other: 1. Greg's gambling; 2. International terrorist plot ending in an interesting murder. John hoped for one, though Sherlock's preference would probably be option two. Option one involved too much potential for emotion and 'that caring lark', which still made his younger love uncomfortable. John supposed there was also the additional discomfort for Sherlock as his own addiction memories were still relatively fresh and this probably hit too close to the bone. Certainly Sherlock had been reluctant to confront Greg about the issue and had not been quite himself when they'd gone to the Yard.

"Sorry, he'll probably be a few minutes." John said as he handed out the tea mugs. "Experiment, you know."

"Ah, actually John we're here to talk to you." Greg appeared flustered and wrapped his hands around his mug, looking away from John.

"Oh, right, okay." John lowered himself onto the couch, Mycroft having purloined his chair as usual.

This was different.

Greg didn't say anything, but fumbled with his mug seemingly unable to decide whether to hold it or set it down. In contrast Mycroft was almost aggressively still and dressed in a suit that even by his usual standards was very posh. The self-striped glossy black three-piece made him look very severe, and he'd even changed his habitual umbrella for a matching dark handled version. He looked as if he were about to attend a state funeral.

There was something else different too, something John couldn't quite describe, maybe a scent, but it made him glad he was between the door and Mycroft in case someone stormed through.

Greg looked over at Mycroft and when Mycroft failed to do or say anything, rallied to go 'it' alone, whatever it was.

"Well, you see, well, we, well, I felt that we needed to... well, it's just not... we're... um, Christ, look the thing is... well..."

John didn't bother to conceal his confusion (Mycroft would see it even if he did). He belatedly realised the noise in the kitchen had stopped, Sherlock's interest must be piqued too, so he slid sideways to the edge of the couch from where he could just see him through the kitchen door thanks to the absurd angle the table was now on. Sherlock was frozen, still bent over his microscope.

Very interested then.

"Oh damn and blast, John, I'm not a Dom." Greg finally spat his sentence out, looking both nervous and defiant, and it was more than enough to grab John's wondering attention.

"What?"

"I'm not a Dom." Greg repeated. 

"You're an Alpha."

"Yes."

"But not a Dom."

"Correct."

"You're an Alpha Submissive."

"Yes."

"Right, okay, pull the other one." John took a sip and blew a bit more on his tea. “So why are you here?”

“I mean it, John.” Greg’s brown eyes bore pleadingly into John’s soul. “I’m a Sub, not a Dom.”

John raised his eyebrow sceptically. It was unbelievable. Alphas were Dominants that was just the way it was. The genes were linked, it was supposed to be impossible to separate them even in a lab, and if what Greg was saying was true then he was living refutation of all John's medical training.

Of course, there was no way it was true. Greg seemed to believe it, but he was obviously confused, right?

Sighing at the pleading expression Greg was sending him, John cast his mind back trying to find any proof in his memories that all this was an elaborate misconception, or any possible signs of Greg developing some form of mental psychosis. Greg was definitely an Alpha. While it was possible to get these things wrong, Sherlock being case in point, Greg scanned very much as an Alpha and John knew his ex-wife had had a miscarriage early in their relationship, which was irrefutable proof confirming what John already instinctively knew.

Admittedly when he tried to find examples of Greg's dominance he couldn't. Greg had never Dommed anyone that John had seen, something John had attributed to the DI being pedantic about the rules and a bit new age-y in the management of his team. True though, he bent (broke) other rules yet still never used dominance to control his people at the Yard, even when there were situations like the last time Sherlock had visited that really did require it. It had been John who had broken off the fight, not Greg despite the damage to the office.

It _would_ rather conveniently explain why John was having so much trouble stopping himself acting like an overprotective mother bear. Similarly to how Harry triggered his instincts despite being a Dom because they were related, Greg might trigger them because he _wasn't_ one _,_ despite being an Alpha.

But, no... really? Greg was certainly convinced and there wasn't anything John could come up with to refute it except the utter impossibility and –

"Alright then, _if_ that’s true, how has no one figured it out?" He challenged, presenting the smallest hurdle to watch Greg stumble from the start.

Greg gave him a weary smile. "Because everyone assumes an Alpha is a Dom and vice versa, even Holmeses who should know better. Besides, I've had a lot of practice acting."

"Yeah, but..." John could think of so many ways that Greg's secret could be uncovered.

"A lot of people confuse Alpha and Dominant traits, they see one and believe it’s the other. Being an Alpha offsets most of the really obvious Submissive tells." Greg shrugged. "Or maybe I got lucky."

"Right." John honestly couldn't say much more. It was utterly insane, and worse, Greg seemed to believe it.

Greg relaxed back into his chair, finally comfortable John wasn't going to call him a liar and challenge him over it. John wasn't sure what he was going to do. He'd always known Greg wasn't a strong Dom, outright pathetic for an Alpha really, but to actually be a Sub... To believe himself to be one…

It was a lot to accept, but it was equally clear Mycroft did believe Greg and that was a fairly weighty bit of evidence in its own right.

"Okay, I’ll play ball. Who knows?" John asked.

"Only the people in this room."

"Huh, and... not that we don't appreciate it, but why are you telling us? Is this because I didn't think the two of you moving in was a good idea? I’m sorry if I was a bit much, but really Greg, you do need to think this through properly." John looked between the two of them suspiciously.

There was rustling as Greg, who almost seemed the only one of the two of them involved in the conversation as Mycroft was neither reacting nor adding anything, shifted looking very discomfited.

"Well, partially."

"Partially?" John leant forward to rest his elbows on his knees. 

"Yeah, um, well, you see... we," he gestured to indicate himself and Mycroft, "well, there really weren't many options and I feel ruddy awful about it, but in this case it really couldn't go on cause - look, you don't need to worry about me, the gambling thing. I, uh, don't actually have a gambling addiction it was just convenient-"

Instead of getting more confused like he felt he should be, things suddenly fell into place in John's head. "How long?"

Greg startled at the interruption and looked very confused despite not having any real reason to.

"How long have you two been together?" John clarified.

There was disbelief tinged with grudging approval faintly visible on Mycroft's face. The older Holmes always did expect John to need things spelled out (though by Mycroft's standards, he did).

"That's what this is about, right?" John continued. "You need an excuse to justify moving in together and this is it. You don't want people realising you're in a relationship."

“Well, um... yes. That’s exactly right.” Greg looked a little uncomfortable, having lost control of the conversation.

“Then-” John stopped as a thought suddenly crossed his mind. "Sherlock."

The clatter of Sherlock's latest scientific escapade resumed more loudly than it had been before.

"Sherlock." John called again, putting enough force behind the word to let his Sub know that he was serious despite the fact he wasn't giving an order.

Slowly and reluctantly Sherlock set down the pipette and unglued his eyes from the microscope. He moved carefully to secure the lids of the various chemicals he was using, an obvious delaying tactic, but one that was always allowed as he tended to use some very nasty compounds, before finally pushing back his chair and walking to John's side. His head was thrown back defiantly and he met John's gaze and held it, but his hands were trembling and John saw him swallow convulsively as he sank to his knees next to John.

He had known then.

"John," Greg started, but stopped when John held up a warning finger.

"You knew." He didn't frame it as a question.

"Yes."

No attempt to hide it, no pause, no dissembling, just an answer.

An answer that confirmed Greg wasn’t around the bend, because there was no way he could spend that many years around both Holmes brothers without one of them noticing he was insane.

John wondered if he was going insane just at the idea of it.

"And you knew Greg didn't have a gambling problem?"

Sherlock raised his chin just a fraction higher. "I didn't lie."

"No," John conceded, "you didn't lie" There was the slightest relaxing of Sherlock's shoulders. "But you deliberately set out to deceive, and never mentioned it or contradicted my conclusions despite the numerous conversations we've had on the topic in the last week and how worried you knew I was."

“Yes." It was becoming visibly harder for Sherlock to maintain his defiance, John could see his fingers convulsing on the floor, but his stubborn Sub refused to back down.

Greg went to speak, but John could see the restraining finger Mycroft crooked warningly out of the corner of his eye, gaze still locked on Sherlock's.

"And if Greg hadn't come today, you would have continued to keep this from me."

"Yes." Sherlock's fingers moved to grip his thighs, but he maintained eye contact, back ramrod straight. He clearly understood the significance of the conversation, how much more was being said than the words implied.

"And if I had asked, demanded an answer from you, instead of letting the issue go, would you have told me?"

Please answer yes. Every bone in John’s body prayed that Sherlock would say yes.

"No." Sherlock's voice was trembling with his body.

"You would have lied to me."

"Yes." Sherlock's voice cracked mid-word. His left hand was wound tight around his bracelet now, and his shoulders had begun to bow.

John took a deep breath and tried to force back his instincts enough to make sense of the storm unfurling inside him. Everything was simultaneously screaming at him to take Sherlock into his arms and protect him and chase away the pain, but also screaming with the pain of his Omega's rejection, the hurt, and anger, so, so much anger.

His instincts were driving emotions that were unforgiving, a hard baseline of anger and pain. How dare Sherlock do this? This was outright betrayal of them and their Bond on every level. A total betrayal of everything they’d ever worked towards, as friends or lovers. A knife in the gut would have hurt less than this metaphorical knife in the back. His instincts howled rampaging through his muscles until he shook from it all.

John pushed off the couch and walked over to the wall, needing space, needing to put floor between him and his Sub (deceiver, backstabber, betrayer, traitor) before he did something unforgivable.

How could Sherlock do this? To him, to them? (Calm, calm, breathe) Sherlock knew how hard it had been for John when they'd started, how reluctant John had been to give in to his feelings for Sherlock because he didn't think he could control his instincts well enough not to demand the control over everything, destroying all the unique aspects of Sherlock he loved, to keep him contained in a fluffy safe haven with John as his gaoler. He'd managed, but he'd managed only because Sherlock promised, he’d promised - no more lies, no more leaving John out, no more hiding, and despite past experience, despite _knowing_ he'd be let down again because he'd been let down before, he'd forced himself to shelve his issues and trust Sherlock so he could adapt, because he loved him, he loved him, and he had since the start and he needed him, and how dare Sherlock, how dare he do this to them!

How dare he kneel there, the rage thundered, and look John in the eye and admit he would lie to John and deceive him, break his trust over something so simple and meaningless as his brother and their friend's relationship.

John pressed his arm across his mouth to restrain the sounds his throat was trying to release, not knowing if they were angry snarls or broken wails. He felt like something deep inside him was tearing, something deeper and more precious than his heart, and it hurt!

Calm, calm, breathe. Channel the anger, channel the hurt, don't let it rule him. This was not like before, it hurt more, but he had training now, he could and would control himself and not do something he'd regret. He'd been in a war now, he could handle this. This wasn’t last time.

Slowly John turned away from the wall, not a full 180° so he could see Sherlock, but far enough around he could see Greg and Mycroft. Greg was partway out of his chair, body leaning towards Sherlock. He looked absolutely desperate to comfort him. Mycroft's whole hand was wrapped around Greg's wrist, keeping him in place. The other Alpha was perfectly composed, merely waiting for the scene to resolve.

John ignored the muffled whimpers he could hear. He had two choices and he couldn't let Sherlock's state influence him into a poor choice that would hurt them more in the long run. He could turn around, go over to Sherlock and try and find some way to get through this despite the tearing in what had to be their Bond, and he had to do it now, or he could walk out the door, give himself some real space and privacy, 5-10 minutes to think, and accept that no matter how much he loved Sherlock he couldn't be around him if he couldn't trust him.

John knew he could walk out. Sherlock, and Greg apparently, if he were to be believed, couldn't stop him and Mycroft would let him go without comment. He also knew that Sherlock would not be here when he got back even if he was only gone for ten minutes, and no matter how hard he searched, Mycroft would ensure he never found Sherlock ever again.

He had to choose to fight or flight, right now, this very second, full to the brim of pain, anger, and old hurt.

He was a soldier, he’d gone to war.

He would always fight.

He stepped away from the wall and let himself face his errant Sub (betrayer, deceiver, _Judas_ ). Sherlock was knelt precisely where John had left him, not an inch out of place. His whole body was shaking so hard he looked like he was having a seizure and he'd collapsed in on himself, shoulders hunched over and head bowed. His hands were round his neck, fingers clutched tight at his collar even though fitting them all in and around the leather circle was causing it to half choke him, reducing the sobs and whimpers to barely anything.

Oh, Sherlock. His poor, poor love.

The sight set up a renewed clamour under John's skin, arousing his need to protect and reassure, and his disgust, and hurt, and loathing.

He moved slowly to stand in front of Sherlock. John wanted to kneel and cradle him in his arms until they were both covered in each other's scent.

He wanted to kick him and whip him until he bled, bright crimson stains splashed across the garish wallpaper. He wanted to _hurt_ him, take his pound of flesh to pay for the excruciating rage inside him.

He did neither. He ruled his instincts, not the other way around and his rational mind knew there was one very important thing he hadn't asked that could well change everything, could potentially save, or send John to the door.

"Why?" He didn't need to raise his voice for it to carry.

"I'm sorry." Sherlock's voice was strained. "I'm sorry."

"Why didn't you tell me, Sherlock?"

"Because I didn't expect - it was just a relationship!" Sherlock's voice was hoarse from where his collar was restricting his collar. "I - you've never cared who was sleeping with whom when I've s-said before and he clearly d-didn't want it made p-public and it was Mycroft and you've said b-before that's not g-good and then suddenly it w-was more and there were other things ah-and I knew they d-didn't want to say but I didn't have time to work out what I s-should and I'm sorry."

John collapsed down onto the couch and buried his face in his hands. His stupid genius, his brilliant idiotic genius. Trying so hard to do the right thing and screwing up so completely. 

"And after?" His own voice was choked up with emotion. All this suffering for both of them because for once Sherlock had tried to be good. “After we heard the rumours, after we talked to Greg? Why didn’t you say anything then?”

Sherlock didn't answer, if possible wrapping more of his long fingers around the leather, forcing himself to breathe in short huffs. John leant forward and gently tugged the hands away before Sherlock caused himself to pass out.

Sherlock froze, and let out a keening wail as he curled down, wrapping his arms under his legs. He started rocking side to side and moaning what John managed to decipher after a few moments as "please, please, no, please." The bewilderment only lasted a few seconds longer before John realised why Sherlock's distress had escalated.

"Oh, Sherlock, no, no, no, love, no. Come here." John tugged on Sherlock's shirt collar. "Come here." Sherlock stayed where he was curled on the floor. " **Come here**."

Slowly Sherlock's body unfurled and John helped him up on the couch next to him. There were no tears, Sherlock looked too panicked and upset to cry, and his lip was chewed ragged. John ran a finger gently across the reddened flesh.

"I'm not taking it off, Sherlock, you just needed to stop before you passed out."

John could see the change flow over Sherlock with the reassurance, his body slightly sagging with relief, though losing none of its tension. He held out a hand, expecting Sherlock's to be given in return.

It hurt, he realised, it really hurt how desperately six foot and one half inch of consulting detective tried to fit himself into John's lap like a child, face buried in John's neck, body scrunched as small as possible to press every last one of those inches within the space of John's frame. The pain was different to the pain earlier, tugged at a different heart string because this hurt was hurt _for_ Sherlock not because of him.

John buried his nose in Sherlock's hair and wrapped his arms around Sherlock's body. Even with John's efforts at feeding him up the detective was still too thin and he could completely encircle him with ease.

"I love you." He whispered into the inky curls. "I love you and I will never take that collar off you. You are mine and I will fight for you, for us, for as long as I'm alive."

There was a strangled sob into his neck and hot wetness as the adrenaline grip over Sherlock's body finally gave enough to allow him to cry.

"I love you." John whispered again. He could feel his own eyes burning as his body responded. Decision made, he needed the reassurance of Sherlock in his arms as much as Sherlock needed to be in them.

Sherlock's fisted grip on his shirt tightened in response.

"We'll leave you two alone." Mycroft stood and collected his umbrella.

"Thank you." John lifted his head enough to meet Greg's eyes without taking his nose out of Sherlock's hair.

If Greg had waited...If Sherlock had actually lied…John wasn’t sure he could have fought his instinctive reaction down enough to face the truth: that no matter what he never wanted to let Sherlock go.

Greg tried to smile reassuringly, but was preoccupied casting confused looks in Mycroft's direction, Mycroft who was now strolling past John towards the door and creating the strangest urge in John to turn his head and pay attention to him. It wasn’t enough to offset his immediate need for Sherlock and his scent, but it was distracting.

“Mycroft?” Greg hadn’t moved from his chair. He still sounded bewildered. “Mycroft, I thought we said-”

“They clearly need some time, Gregory.” Mycroft unhooked his great coat from where he’d stored it behind the door when John got tea.

John appreciated it, the sentiment, but the embarrassment he could slowly feel creeping in now the emotional drive was gone was faint enough still, as long as he was able to hold Sherlock. From the silent sobs still wracking Sherlock’s body he wasn’t going to be in any condition to talk for a bit. John didn’t want to press, but Sherlock still owed him an answer and if the wound wasn’t lanced and all possible infection burned off now it could and would fester and become much, much worse. However that was for later, not this second, not if Greg still needed something.

Greg looked annoyed, even a little angry and had most definitely _not_ moved from his seat in Sherlock’s armchair.

“No, Mycroft.” His voice was firm. “We said everything.”

He sent a pointed glance John’s, or rather John suspected Sherlock’s, way. Behind him he could hear the reluctant sounds of Mycroft hanging his coat back up.

Mycroft’s walk back to his chair was measured, dignified and very formal, like a man going to his execution. He brushed close to John on the way, and John found himself instinctively taking a deep lungful of air, even though all he could smell was Sherlock and his fussy, salon-branded shampoo.

Greg kept looking at Mycroft once he resumed his seat, though it quickly became clear Mycroft wasn’t saying anything and he let out an exasperated sigh.

“You see, John, the thing is,” he’d scooted forward to the edge of the seat and was leaning forward earnestly, right knee obscured by one of Sherlock’s soft silky curls, “I’m not actually gay, you know, in any sense of the word.”

Well that was enlightening. Word games, more word games. John’s brain was really not functioning and he just wanted whatever it was explained so he could concentrate on his Sub, but Greg was giving him a pleading please-work-it-out look and Sherlock’s crying had stuttered slightly and he now pressed even closer into John, almost as though he was hiding from Greg’s words.

With a sigh John let his head shift so he was once again buried with his eyes closed in Sherlock’s curls.

So Greg wasn’t gay. Right, and why did John care, especially right at this second? Surely Greg’s sexuality crisis could wait? No, that was being horrible when Greg had just saved him so much.

The term gay was usually used now to refer to those who fancied people of the same dynamic as themselves. Greg had just revealed he believed he was a Sub. Was he trying to reassure John that he’d never been interested in Sherlock? Not only was that pointless as it had never occurred to John, but if that was what Greg had meant there wouldn’t have been any reason to caveat his sentence with ‘in any sense’.

John sighed again, breath ruffling the curls against his skin. So that could only mean that Greg didn’t fancy his own gender. Well, that was hardly a revelation, most Alphas didn’t after –

John stopped, thoughts coming to a screeching halt.

Greg was an Alpha.

He wasn’t gay.

He was in a relationship with Mycroft.

But he wasn’t gay.

Sherlock’s stillness in his arms, sobs forced down again out of fear, suddenly made a lot more sense.

It was possible Mycroft was a Beta. After all, Greg had posed as a Dom for years purely off the strength of being an Alpha and Sherlock had faked enough Dominance to be taken as an Alpha Dom despite being neither. Mycroft was Dominant, very Dominant. John had come across other Doms stronger than himself in the army, but he thought Mycroft might be another step up again. It was hard to tell without all parties there to compare, but it seemed that way, so it would be stupidly easy for Mycroft to fake being an Alpha based off nothing more than that.

If he were a Beta, he would be the most Dominant Beta John had ever met by miles.

“Sherlock,” John murmured into the hair, “are you and Mycroft full siblings?”

He kept his voice low for him and Sherlock alone because it seemed the thing to do more than because he didn’t want Greg and Mycroft to hear. He nuzzled his Sub, waiting with a thudding heart for the answer. Somehow it seemed so important, so very important, that Sherlock be the one to answer this not anyone else.

It wasn’t uncommon for families not to differentiate between siblings and half-siblings given how often Alpha parents involuntarily strayed. Even at the height of their arguments when they were hurting each other in every way possible with every low blow they had ever found effective, John and Harry never put any weight to the fact they only had their Sire in common, and John’s Mum was Mrs Caroline Watson, not whoever had given birth to him. Given the social and political prominence of the Holmes family, John could easily believe that small genetic difference would be hidden from the world.There was the slightest nod against his neck and Sherlock started trembling again, hands still buried in John’s shirt.

John held him close.

Full siblings.

“This is your answer, isn’t it? Why you didn’t come forward this week.” John gently rocked him. “You were protecting him.”

Full siblings.

God.

He bared his teeth in what might possibly have been mistaken for a smile, but was a feral challenge, and raised his face from Sherlock’s hair to meet Mycroft’s eyes. Suddenly Mycroft’s sepulchral presence in the room when he wasn’t adding anything to the conversation made a lot more sense.

I see you.

“Omega.”

Mycroft’s jaw tilted up, not quite enough to accept the challenge in John’s territory, but certainly in warning. “Omega _Dominant_.”

John’s mind kept flying ahead, pulling together scraps of information he hadn’t realised he’d noticed and slotting them together into place. Was this what it felt like to be Sherlock? It was mind blowing.

“You wouldn’t let him say.” John’s voice was flat.

He could feel the anger building again, but this time it was focused outwards not at a piece of his soul, and he felt himself growing calm in automatic response. He had always functioned well under external pressure, emotional or otherwise.

“All this,” John stroked a hand down Sherlock’s back, “you caused all this because you wouldn’t let him tell me.”

Mycroft said and did nothing.

“What did you do?” John hissed. “Did you threaten him? Dom him?”

Mycroft shifted slightly in his chair.

“How dare you, how DARE you!” John vaguely noticed Greg moving to put himself between Mycroft and John, but Mycroft stopped him. Greg didn’t sit, merely hovered halfway between the chairs, visibly unable to keep going or convince himself to go back.

It was a needless gesture. John wouldn’t move Sherlock to stand and even if he did he felt no desire to actually attack Mycroft despite his anger.

“You would have just left. Would you even be here if Greg hadn’t made you come?”

“No.”

“So you’d let him suffer!” John knew his fingers were pressing into Sherlock so hard he’d probably leave bruises, but he needed to feel him under his skin, needed the tactile grounding in his Sub. “You don’t care about him at all!”

Something snapped in Mycroft and he was on his feet before John finished his sentence.

“Do you think I wanted this!” Mycroft roared, gesturing to his body. “You don’t think I wouldn’t prefer to be an Alpha so both our lives could have been easier! I’m taking a substantial risk informing you and I am accepting it solely for his sake, so do not ever again so much as insinuate I do not care for _my_ brother!”

They stayed there, Mycroft standing aggressively, chest heaving, John holding Sherlock with teeth bared and silent snarl, until Sherlock broke the tension.

“It’s not his fault.”

John instantly broke contact in preference of fussing over his Sub. Sherlock slowly lifted his face out of the crook of John’s neck and wiped tear tracks away with his silk shirt. He still looked awful, miles too pale with red rimmed bloodshot eyes and the minutest of tremors still in his hand.

John bit back a growl, knowing it would be taken the wrong way by Sherlock. He _would_ make someone pay for this, for putting them in this position and hurting his Omega so much.

“He’s not the one – Mycroft has only used force over this problem once and I was off my head on cocaine and about to mouth off everything in the A&E. He was right to.” Sherlock’s beautiful baritone was worn from crying.

The growl slipped past John’s control.

“No, really John.” Sherlock looked frantic; obviously scared John was going to challenge Mycroft over this.

John hadn’t decided.

“John, he’s a politician, a diplomat, he is the Government. Do you have any idea what would happen to him if this was uncovered.” Sherlock moved to straddle John and bracketed his face with hands. “It really is life or death for him.”

John let the air out of his lungs in a long sigh and slumped against the back of the couch. Yes, he could imagine how dangerous this secret was. Thinking his Alpha was calmed, Sherlock relaxed too.

“Who then?” John murmured as Sherlock’s thumb stroked his face.

Someone had Dommed the command into Sherlock. John didn’t believe a onetime thing by Mycroft in the A&E was all that was bound up in this.

The thumb stopped and John straightened again dangerously. There was fear written all over Sherlock’s face, a different kind of fear to earlier. This wasn’t the fear of an adult being forced between a rock and a hard place, threatened with losing everything. This was the fear of a child and a child’s nightmare.

“Who?” John repeated again, aware his voice had settled into a dangerous primal rumble and not caring in the slightest.

“Our Sire.” Mycroft answered instead, resettling himself in the chair. Greg propped himself on the arm. “He was… less than impressed with the revelations brought by my arriving at puberty.”

How often, John wondered as he brushed the curls clouding Sherlock’s face back, was that taken out on them? How often was the command driven into them, both of them, until keeping Mycroft’s secret formed part of the Holmes brothers’ cores? Sherlock would have been what 4, 5 when Mycroft hit puberty?

It would have severely damaged Sherlock to tell John. After a literal lifetime of being ordered not to, John wondered whether he even could have.

He leant his forehead against Sherlock’s.

Not Sherlock’s fault. None of this Sherlock’s fault. Not even Mycroft’s fault. He was as damaged by all this as his brother, though John doubted he’d ever acknowledge it to himself, let alone anyone else.

He would find and kill the Alpha who had done this to them.

“He’s already dead.”

He was growling again. He supposed that was a fairly obvious clue to his intentions.

“Really?”

“For ten years.” Mycroft confirmed dispassionately. “I identified the body myself.”

John shifted his gaze to look at Greg in the eye and saw the Alpha staring back. If Holmes Snr hadn’t already been dead he would have been soon, and between them John was sure they wouldn’t have had any problems disposing of the body.

He tried to let his anger go. He couldn’t take it out on the person who deserved it and here and now it would only hurt people he was meant to protect.

Focus elsewhere, change the subject.

“So how far along are you?”

Everyone in the room started and stared at him, Mycroft in particular looking confused and almost scared.

“Really?” John fumed. “Really? I’m a doctor, and I’ve been living with Sherlock Holmes for almost two years!”

“Well, yeah, but...” Greg stuttered looking all too wide eyed for John’s tastes.

He could live with the Holmeses underestimating him as they were both arrogant gits. (He loved Sherlock very much, but he was still an arrogant git.) He would not take being condescended to by Greg Lestrade.

“You and Mycroft have been friends for years and suddenly you’re risking your career and reputation to move in together? Not without some sort of trigger. Now what sort of trigger might convince a fake Dom and a closeted Omega to move in together after fighting for the last few months? Conclusion, Mycroft’s suppression meds screwed up recently and tada, baby.” John scratched his head and took a deep breath of air. He could almost smell it without his nose buried in Sherlock’s hair. “Besides, you’re making me _itch_.” He complained.

The reaction to that was instantaneous. Mycroft’s mask fell away completely and he looked terrified while Greg leapt to his feet planting himself squarely between John and Mycroft.

John blinked in surprise and decided it was best not to move a muscle. Terrified was not a safe look on Mycroft Holmes.

It was Greg who broke the standoff with a huffing laugh and collapsed back on the chair arm. “Guess you do have a family Alpha after all, My.” There was a certain wicked glee in his voice as he turned to face his partner. “He’s _Bonded_ to your brother, which means he’s related to you.”

“Indeed.” Mycroft gave an exasperated sigh. “You really can scent it?”

“Sort of, it’s not really a scent yet.” John breathed in again. “It’s more a... it’s hard to explain... an awareness?”

“Lucky you.” Greg grumbled looking sulkily at the wall. John noticed his foot was hooked around Mycroft’s leg keeping them in contact.

“So how far along are you actually?” He prompted again, rearranging Sherlock so he was sitting on the couch, laid out with his head in John’s lap instead of sending his leg to sleep. He surreptitiously tried to work out the pins and needles to absolutely no avail.

“Two months and approximately twenty three days.” Greg answered. “What?” He glowered at all the looks he was getting. “It was a rather significant event you know.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes and received a not so elegant elbow to his shoulder. The appearance that Greg hadn’t rolled over like a puppy to every one of his Omega’s whims was ruined by the consolatory brush of lips to Mycroft’s knuckles.

“Probably a good thing you mentioned this now then.” John let Sherlock snag his fingers and didn’t resist as Sherlock burrowed his way up John’s shirt until he was able to touch skin. “A couple more weeks and it’ll start to really drive me bonkers as well.”

“And on that revelation have we covered everything to your satisfaction, Gregory?” Mycroft pointedly examined his pocket watch.

It was Greg’s turn to roll his eyes followed by an icy raised eyebrow from Mycroft.

“Yes?”

“In that case our dinner reservation is waiting.”

“Dinner? We’re having dinner together?” It was painful how pathetically hopefully Greg sounded. He certainly perked up a lot.

“Yes.” Mycroft stood. “John, Sherlock, hope to see you both soon.” With an insincere smile he swept out the door as fast as was possible while retaining a dignified pace and the illusion he wasn’t fleeing the scene.

“I’d better just...” Greg fluttered his hands after the retreating figure.

“Coat, Gregory.” Mycroft called from the steps.

“Coat, coat, ah right. Well, see you soon mates.” Greg waved quickly, collected the great coats, and bolted out the door.

John stayed where he was, letting his brain filter and process everything. “Well, that was interesting.”

Sherlock didn’t respond, just lay still in John’s lap stroking his skin.

“Sherlock,” John bit his lip, “has Mycroft ever had a relationship before? A proper one?”

Sherlock shook his head.

“Huh.”

Sherlock twisted and peered up at John with one bleary eye. “You don’t think it’s a good thing.” He sounded confused.

“I think it _could_ be a good thing, but it’s more likely to be an explosive disaster.”

The hand under his clothing resumed its stroking, but it seemed rather wistful.

“They’re perfect for each other. Against all odds they’re friends and have complimentary genders and dynamics.” Definitely wistful.

John felt a smile tug at the corner of his mouth. He’d long suspected Sherlock, despite his obliviousness to actually recognising or carrying it off, was a closet romantic. Probably came from only retaining a few of the classics and all of those that he kept celebrating old fashioned courtly romance. John wondered whether Sherlock had deleted Disney and resolved to find out.

“It’s not a fairytale, love; it’s life. There are no happily ever after’s in life.”

“There can be.” The fingers tightened on John’s skin. He was clearly not talking solely about Mycroft and Greg’s relationship.

“There can be, but they take work, lots of work.” John warned him, knowing things wouldn’t be easy, no matter how much the respective parties loved each other.

“You don’t think Mycroft and Lestrade will put in the effort?” Sherlock scowled and John let himself enjoy the novelty of Sherlock defending his brother as Sherlock quite obviously ran from the implied discussion of their own relationship, desperate to believe everything would be alright.

“I think,” John said gently, “that a Sub who not only doesn’t know how to be a Sub, but is used to acting as a Dom, and an inexperienced Dom who has his own issues is a very dangerous combination, even without the added stress of a baby.”

“Mycroft’s not that inexperienced.”

“I’m sure he’s got lots of experience at directing sessions, but there’s a big difference between casual play and the compromises required in a relationship.” John sighed. “It’s going to be harder since your upbringing appears to have been very traditional.”

And abusive, but John didn’t want to think about that right then.

Sherlock gave a snort and waved a dismissive hand.

“I’m serious.” John didn’t try and resist the impulse to catch the flying appendage and graze a small kiss across the knuckles. “You might have rejected it all, but I’m betting Mycroft internalised everything, and Greg is never going to be a traditional Sub. His Alpha nature will prevent it.”

“Mycroft enjoys a challenge. He’d be bored stiff if Lestrade were an ordinary Sub.”

“I know that, you know that, anyone who has ever met Mycroft knows that, but I don’t think Mycroft does, not really.”

Sherlock buried his face in back in John’s clothing and didn’t reply so they sat there in silence for a few minutes.

“What about us?” He eventually asked in a small voice.

“I understand why you didn’t say anything.” John kept his answers neutral. He knew they had to have this conversation, but he didn’t want to.

“So are we okay?”

John could hear the hope in his voice.

“No, Sherlock, we’re not okay.” There was an unidentifiable muffled sound into John’s thigh. “I _know_ why, but it feels like something’s been ripped, something important deep down... I can’t explain.” He realised he was rubbing his chest as if it were a physical wound.

“I know.” The fingers under John’s shirt retreated as Sherlock curled up into a ball, like he didn’t dare touch anymore.

“You feel it too?”

“Yes.” Sherlock sounded resigned, utterly hopeless.

“Hey, hey.” John rolled Sherlock over so he could see his face. As expected Sherlock’s eyes were bright with tears, but then John could feel them burning in his own eyes again as well. “It’s ripped, not severed. We can, _will_ , fix it. I love you and I refuse to ever let you go.”

“I love you too.” Sherlock whispered back. “I was so scared you would – in the office I thought... and then they came and I knew and I was terrified-”

“I’m here, I’m here.” John gathered Sherlock up and pulled him into a sitting position to better hold him.

It frightened him, seeing Sherlock, his calm, arrogant, icy _emotionless_ Sherlock in this overwrought state. Sherlock was never this open with what he felt and was a superlative actor, able to convince almost anyone of anything, but here he was broadcasting everything for John to see. John had never seen him like this, and hoped never to again.

“This,” he brushed his finger along the thin black band, “is never coming off. You are mine, do you understand me, and I am possessive and jealous and never surrender what is mine. If I am alive you are mine, even if you want to leave.”

“If you’re alive,” Sherlock responded “there’s no reason I would ever want to leave.”

Minutes ticked by as John gently held Sherlock until he reluctantly let his arms drop.

“Do you need to go? Is that time sensitive?” He waved in the general direction of the kitchen experiment laden table.

“I’ll redo it tomorrow.” Sherlock mumbled, not moving.

There was no one left to see, but John hid his smile in Sherlock’s neck anyway. “If you’re sure.”

“Very.”

With a bit of nudging John retrieved his legs from under Sherlock and coaxed him down on the couch. Sherlock was bent at hip and knee into what had to be an uncomfortable position, but he refused to move his head from under John’s chin so John let him be. Instead he snagged the afghan off the back of the couch.

“Mine.” He whispered.

Sherlock sighed contentedly and nuzzled John’s neck.

“We’ll be fine.” John vowed. “I promise.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Evening all. 
> 
> No warnings for this chapter, though I will say that this chapter has nothing to do Greg and that his state of mind is much more related to me coming out of a rather heavy lecture on International Criminal Law. 
> 
> Enjoy all!

“And that should be the last one.” Greg dragged a grimy hand over his face, chasing miniscule sweat drops along his brow.

“You’ve already said that twice.”

The sound of packing tape filled the air as John reassembled the flatpack box.

“Yeah well, I underestimated the number of books I own, but seriously, last lot.”

Body protesting he bent down to picke up one of the neat piles of books on the floor and handed it over to John, who started stacking them in the box. He was right, the books only filled half the box. Packing tape was sealed over the top, the box pushed into its assigned stack, and finally, finally his flat was packed.

John let out a pain filled groan and the two of them moved back through the sitting room where Sherlock’s expensive leather shoes could just be seen dangling over the edge of the couch.

“Bored.” The detective had obviously heard them returning from pushing the box into the hallway pile.

Greg rolled his eyes and continued through to the kitchen. There wasn’t much left, but there was a six pack of beer ready and waiting for this moment.

“You could have helped.”

He could hear John gently chastising his recumbent flatmate. He could also imagine the disdainful look the immaculate, designer clad Sub was giving his sweaty, dusty, tracksuit wearing Dom.

“Boring.”

“Not necessarily. You could have... deduced more things about Greg.”

Greg wasn’t so thrilled with that idea. Luckily it appeared Sherlock shared his enthusiasm.

“I already know as much about Lestrade as I want to John, especially now he has impregnated my brother.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Greg handed John his beer, smiling gamely.

They clinked the necks of the bottles and drank.

“What about me?” Sherlock pouted.

“You didn’t help.” John pointed out.

“Yes, I did, I stayed out of your way.”

Only with Sherlock did that logic in any way work.

“Do you even drink beer?” Greg slouched with his feet as far outstretched as possible.

The furniture was still out, looking forlorn and empty. It would all be put in storage for him until it could be quietly sold off at a later date. There was no need for Greg’s sad tired old furniture in Mycroft’s house.

“Don’t you have any wine?” Sherlock asked.

“Nope, first thing packed and I’m not finding it, so unless you want to get your pretty suit dirty, this,” he indicated the beer he held, “is your only choice.”

“I’m fine.” Sherlock wrinkled his nose.

Greg and John saluted beers and drank up.

“So you’re really doing this huh?” John collapsed on the floor in front of the couch and took a swig of his beer.

One of Sherlock’s arms came down to wrap around the sweaty shoulders in a half hug.

“Yep.” Greg tilted his beer in acknowledgement.

“You two don’t think you should try, I don’t know, dating first?”

Greg sent an annoyed look John’s way and received a totally guileless smile in return.

“He’s my best friend and he’s carrying my baby. Course I’m moving in with him. You would if it were you.”

“Yeah, probably.” John admitted. “Well, best of luck.”

“Thanks, but things’ll be fine.” Greg raised his beer to match John’s grudging salute anyway. It never hurt to have a little more luck.

“So what’s happening with all this stuff anyway?” John looked around at the piles of boxes in the sitting room. Most of the boxes were stacked in the hallway, but some were still in there with them.

“Movers are coming tomorrow. Everything in here goes into storage to be dealt with later, everything out there gets taken to Mycroft’s place. Cleaners come in first thing Monday and goes up for sale Tuesday.”

“That’s fast.” John looked a little stunned.

“Mycroft moves very fast.” Greg shrugged.

“When he can be bothered to get off his fat arse.” Sherlock sniped.

“Hey, we talked about this.” John playfully slapped his partner’s wrist. “No teasing your brother about his weight. He’s eating for two now.”

“He’s been eating for two since he was born.”

John shot Sherlock a mock glare.

“He’s not even here.” Sherlock huffed.

“No,” John returned his attention to his beer, “but you need the practice.”

The glare Sherlock directed at Greg was a definite ‘this is all your fault; you’re spoiling my one joy in life’ glare.

Greg sheepishly grinned back.

“So you’re really going to sell?” John nudged Sherlock until he broke contact with Greg’s eyes  and stared sulkily back at the ceiling.

“Sort of. I’m selling, but it’s going to be bought by something that apparently means I still own it, but it can’t be traced back to me. He did explain, but I got lost three words in. Basically, it’s going where the rest of my bank account went.”

“So wait, you actually emptied your bank account?” John looked alarmed at the revelation.

“Of course. We’re not trying to fool the Yard, John.” Greg rolled his eyes in exasperation. “It’s Mycroft’s counterparts we’re trying to fool. It has to be as authentic as possible.”

“If you’re sure.” John was obviously preventing himself from saying anything more.

“Very sure, thank you.” Greg knew John had doubts, and he appreciated him holding them back as best he could, but it was still annoying. “So what are we ordering?”

“Not-”

“Yes, you are.”

“I ate-”

“Yesterday.”

Sherlock humphed. “Then I want Indian.”

John looked over at Greg for confirmation and Greg gave a non-committal shrug. He was okay with Indian.

“I don’t have a number though. Usually pick up on the way home.” He warned.

“Indian it is.” John wearily clambered to his feet. “Where’s your local Greg?”

“’Bout three blocks that way.” Greg waved in the general vicinity of the Golden Saffron, a very fancy name for a very tiny place.

“Oh I see. Not coming?”

“Nope.” Greg was very much enjoying being off his feet.

“Sherlock?”

“Usual.” Sherlock had steepled his fingers under his chin.

“Not coming then either?” John dragged his jacket on.

“Ug, moving. Moving’s boring.”

“Of course it is, lazy git.” John rolled his eyes. “What do you want Greg?”

“Lamb shashi korma. Wallet’s on the bench.”

John waved it away. “You get first few rounds at the pub next time.”

“Take the cash. Going to have to cut down on the pub for a bit. Austerity measures and all that.” Greg wasn’t looking forward to it, but it had to be done.

“You and the rest of Europe.”

John swept out the door with a parting wave. The silence lingered after the door snicked closed behind him.

“So everything between you two is okay, yeah?” Greg asked nervously.

Sherlock sighed and deliberately ignored the question.

“Sherlock, I’m serious.”

There was a pause.

“We’ll be fine.” Sherlock eventually intoned.

“Promise?” Greg asked in a subdued voice.

Sherlock turned his head to regard him with his usual piercing stare. “You’re worried.”

“Well, yeah, just a bit. You’ve done so much for Mycroft and I, and we almost screwed you over without even realising.” The guilt still simmered below the surface.

“We’ll be fine.” Sherlock turned his gaze back to the ceiling. “He promised.”

“Okay. If you need anything, let me know. It’s the least I can do.”

Sherlock didn’t reply so they sat there, Sherlock staring at something and Greg fiddling with his almost empty beer.

“I would appreciate it,” Sherlock suddenly broke the silence, “if you would not make an issue of, or otherwise allude to, the fact that Mycroft used dominance during our discussion.”

“You didn’t tell him?” Greg swallowed nervously.

“I didn’t deny it, as you heard, but at the time... he would have challenged Mycroft over it and I didn’t believe Mycroft’s pheromonal response to pregnancy was far enough advanced to prevent a physical response from John, which could have harmed the foetus.” Sherlock sounded nonchalant, a giveaway that he felt anything but.

Greg could understand that. He’d been terrified when John started yelling that he would attack Mycroft, made even worse by the fact Mycroft had refused to let Greg protect him, had in fact yelled back and been angry, frightened and hurt. Greg knew that as a Dom Mycroft wasn’t going to let Greg protect him the same way a submissive Omega would, and he was more than competent, but it didn’t stop the automatic fear and panic when an angry, very angry, dominant, very dominant, Alpha was very close to physically assaulting an Omega carrying your child.

Of course, apparently John wouldn’t have laid an aggressive finger on Mycroft as he could tell Mycroft was carrying and was affected enough for his protective instincts for Sherlock to have to compete with his protective instincts for Mycroft. For which Greg was eternally grateful, because police training had nothing on the army, let alone that John was younger, fitter and a Dom. There was no fury on Earth like an Alpha Dom who felt someone had wronged his Bonded Omega Sub. For a Bonded Omega even a mouse would be a lion, and John Watson was no mouse.

“He won’t do it again, he’ll be more wary now.” Sherlock was looking at Greg now, clearly worried by Greg’s silence.

It put Greg in a rather uncomfortable position where he felt he owed a duty to both John and Sherlock, and Mycroft.

“What if he does?” Greg’s mouth felt dry.

He hated the thought of Mycroft using his dynamic to overcome Sherlock’s will. Sherlock was an adult, he was Bound and Bonded, there should be absolutely no excuse for Mycroft to ever use Dominance on him, but he clearly had before. He easily could again.

“Then I’ll tell John.” There was no hesitation in Sherlock’s voice. Without a second thought he would throw his brother into it, even if it did mean something might well happen to Mycroft because of it.

“Okay.”

Greg winced at the hesitation in his voice. He couldn’t help it. He really didn’t want to see John v Mycroft, especially with the possibility Mycroft could be hurt.

It wasn’t John’s usual style. He was a soldier: he didn’t like hurting people or pain for pain’s sake, but he believed strongly in fighting for things. For him, Sherlock was a cause much more meaningful than Queen and country, and for Queen and country John had gone to Afghanistan and been willing to die.

For Sherlock, John had been willing to live.

Which meant that for Sherlock, he could do anything.

He could hurt Mycroft.

He could _seriously_ hurt Mycroft.

Sherlock’s gaze turned icy with a tiny burning spark glowing deep in his eyes. “I will not hide this from him.”

A warning as well as a plea. Sherlock would protect Mycroft this one last time, if Greg protected him, but never again. He would never risk so much again, not even for Mycroft.

“Nor should you.” Greg’s voice was hoarse.

Sherlock shouldn’t have to.

Apparently it was going to be Greg’s responsibility to make sure he didn’t have to.

Sherlock gave a sharp nod and looked back at the ceiling.

“Surprised you came tonight.” Greg commented, anxious not to let an uncomfortable silence fall.

Sherlock shrugged. “Not that surprising.”

No, Greg supposed not. Sherlock hadn’t been as obvious as clinging to John, but he had lounged artfully over whatever perch had been available where Greg and John were working. They’d finish a room, move to the next, and within fifteen minutes Sherlock would appear and fling himself down with an exclamation of “Bored” and an exaggerated sigh. Routinely throughout the packing process John would run a finger along a cheekbone or down Sherlock’s neck, and despite protests of how John’s hands were filthy, Sherlock never leant away from the touch and always leant into.

Not that surprising. Surprising that John had gone for Indian on his own.

“Please,” Sherlock rolled his eyes, “it’s been two weeks. What, did you think we’d be holed up refusing to let anyone else see us, requiring constant contact and sentimental reassurances?”

“No.” Yes

“Two weeks.” Sherlock was dismissive.

Greg let it drop. Sherlock was unique as a Sub in almost every way except his gender. The myth of the downtrodden dependant Submissive trembling at home, waiting eagerly for their Dom to return after work so they could feel safe and worthwhile was just that, a myth, but Sherlock brought a whole new level of independence to the table. More often than not John sat at Baker Street and worried, not the other way around! Though, that might change now. Greg wondered exactly how much freedom Sherlock would eventually be shown to have lost as a direct result of Greg and Mycroft’s actions.

“I never asked, um, are you alright with all this?” Greg preferred to study his beer than look at Sherlock, almost empty or not.

“Alright with what?” Sherlock was being artificially dense. It was evident in his voice that he didn’t want to discuss the matter, but Greg felt someone ought to check, and God knows Mycroft wouldn’t think to.

“About me, and Mycroft, and the baby.” He was gripping his beer bottle much harder than truly necessary.

“Why wouldn’t I be alright with it?” Sherlock’s voice was very blank and he was very still. Unlike Mycroft, it didn’t automatically make him seem threatening.

“Well he’s your brother, and now we’re together, and Mycroft mentioned you were, that you wanted a child, and bloody hell, Sherlock, it must be hard. I just wanted to check you’re okay.”

“I’ll be fine.” Sherlock took a breath, then quietly almost under his breath. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. If you’re not, you know you-”

Sherlock gave a disgusted little huff and Greg stopped with a small smile. Right, too much mushy stuff.

“So while we’re talking about things we’re not telling John, what’re my chances of you not passing on my little breakdown the other night? As long as it doesn’t need to be of course.” He hastened to add.

Sherlock smirked. “Why Lestrade, anyone would think you were worried he might want to _talk_ about it.”

Greg grinned. “I’ve already got to go to counselling for gambling addiction, I don’t need him forcing me into AA or appointing himself my sponsor.”

“I suppose I could refrain from mentioning it. As long as it doesn’t need to be of course.”

“Of course.”

“Of course?” John’s voice sounded from the corridor. “What’d I miss?”

“You’re on your own Lestrade.” Sherlock batted at the bags John carried in.

“Okay, okay, keep your socks on.” John laughed. “Sit up you git, you can’t eat lying down.”

“Can.” Sherlock replied, but sat up anyway and accepted his food.

“So what were you talking about while I was away?” John finished laying the selection out on the coffee table.

“Would you like another beer?” Greg jumped to his feet.

“Greg’s ill advised attempt at alcohol poisoning on truly awful scotch three weeks ago.” Sherlock blithely took a mouthful of Indian, ignoring Greg’s groan.

“Traitor.”

“Yes.”

“What did you do?” John sounded resigned.

“I told you he-”

John laid a hand on Sherlock’s arm and cut him off mid annoyed outburst.

“I was in a bad place, okay.” Greg said defensively.

“Mycroft.” John intoned knowingly.

Greg resented the implication, but couldn’t deny it, not completely. “And some issues at work.”

“Uh huh.”

“But mostly Mycroft.” Greg conceded. “But it’s all fixed now and after that hangover I’m never doing it again.”

“Okay.”

Greg was shocked. “Oh my God, really?”

“Really.” There was a faint amusement under John’s very neutral voice. “You’re an adult and God knows I can understand the _occasional_ need for a night of oblivion.”

“Thanks.” Greg eyed John suspiciously.

“I owe you Greg, consider restraining myself repayment.” Now there was slight annoyance.

“Okay, well, cheers.”

Greg was not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. Questioning things too closely around Sherlock tended to end with you trying very hard not to hit him, not to vomit, or both. John certainly seemed to be willing to keep his word: he accepted the second beer without quibble or comment, and there weren’t any considering looks or measuring stares (at least no more than usual).

Made Greg feel guilty all over again. He kept underestimating John, and his friend kept proving him very wrong.

The evening wound to a close fairly quickly after the food was eaten. Greg and John had been packing since early that afternoon, Greg having taken a half day in order to pack, and filling and moving boxes was tiring. Sherlock was bored, bored, bored, and more and more clearly only still there and behaving for John. After one slightly too cutting comment too many, John dragged him off the couch and said their goodbyes.

Greg gathered up the takeaway rubbish and walked it out to the bins. Standing on the sidewalk, he let his eye wonder over his home. It was slowly sinking in, becoming all the more real that this was the last time he’d do this: last time he’d come out to these bins at ridiculous hours because he was still awake even if the rest of the world wasn’t; last time he’d see the tired old building in the weak cloud bared moonlight and even weaker street light; possibly the last time he’d see it. He had no reason to come back.

He’d never studied the building from this angle before, never stood there next to the bin and drunk in the sight of his flat. Why would he, who would?

It was tired, it was old, the most special thing about it was that as the ground flat Greg had the front door, the stairs for everyone else being around the side in a vain attempt to give some class and an appearance of singularity despite being three flats in three levels. It wasn’t in a particularly nice neighbourhood, how could it have been? They’d bought it young and needed something affordable close to both their jobs. The intent had always been to upgrade to a house a little further out, but still central, and they’d even actively discussed it and searched when Jacqueline had fallen pregnant, but then there had been the miscarriage and Greg’s promotion, which had slightly more money and a lot more hours attached, and nothing had ever come of it.

Jackie had got her house when she moved in with her lover. Greg had kept the flat, and now he was leaving it to move in with _his_ lover, his pregnant lover.

Bigger and better things.

But he would miss it.

Eventually the fact he was woefully underdressed for midnight in mid-March drove Greg back inside. He stood in the doorway to the sitting room, hand hovering over the light switch.

Empty.

Everything gone, his life packed into boxes. He’d eaten his last meal on that couch he ever would, stared at the stains for the last time, laughed and drunk his last beer with his friends that he ever would in this room.

He flicked the light off and wondered around through to the kitchen. The cupboards all stood open and Greg moved along the bench, a trailing hand shutting each door. He didn’t deliberately prevent them slamming, but as each closed with a gentle thud the concept that one would produce such a hard sharp sound and disturb the increasingly heavy surrealism that had settled over the scene was appalling. He didn’t alter his movement, kept his tugs and pushes exactly the same, unable to change in the strange mood that had fallen over the flat, and felt the tension curling inside, increasing with every step and every cupboard door with the strange fear that this one would slam, even as his mind felt less and less involved with his actions.

His fingers trailed through several drops of water on the edge of the sink from where he and John had washed their hands, smearing them together. His fingers caught slightly on the end of the bench where the water lubrication ran dry.

The slight friction retarded the progress of his arm, but failed to break his trance-like state as his feet wondered past the table, completing his lap of the room and taking him out the door.

His fingers dragged unimpeded down the wall. He hadn’t kept his walls hugely cluttered, but normally, previously, his fingers would have snagged on a picture frame, a tall ornament, something. Now they skated unimpeded until they caught on the doorframe to the spare room and held, lazily pivoting his body through the room.

He’d never really used this room, never come into it. It had been meant to be their baby’s room, his or her nursery while they found their house and moved, neither of them realistically believing they would manage before the birth. It had been storage afterwards, neither of them wanting to turn it back into the guestroom it had been, remaining instead a permanent, ignored shrine to a child that never was, stacked high with boxes of things they no longer wanted to think about or see.

The boxes were gone now. Even in the moonlight Greg could make out the colour disparity in one corner where he had optimistically begun to repaint the room in preparation for delivery. He knew it was baby blue, but in the dark it was a stain on the cream wall, a blight that drew the eye, but gave nothing back.

Greg had packed this room himself before John had arrived. He had avoided looking at the wall, yet now he found his feet carrying him over to it. His hand involuntarily stroked the wall once, just once, and his feet then carried him away.

There was no reason to linger. He’d said goodbye years ago.

The corridor seemed to narrow at the end, the top of the walls disappearing out of view, not into fuzziness or mist, just out of consideration, his mind offline, letting his body go on autopilot as it wished, making a final circuit of the place he had called home.

The last room he entered had been his own. He didn’t circle this time as he had in all the others, merely systematically removed his clothes and pulled on his sleeping gear. The dirty laundry went into overnight bag still resting next to the bed. He went into the sleeping bag that was serving as his bedding for the night.

He lay there, staring up at the ceiling as his brain absently catalogued marks he’d never deigned to notice before though he’d been looking at that white expanse on sleepless nights for two decades. Familiarity, he supposed, had bred contempt.

It was different, lying there. He hadn’t closed the curtains and the lights of London spilled in, the occasional car tracking straight lines across the paint as he watched, not asleep, but mind not active, switched off, gone. It wasn’t like his usual semi-regularly occurring insomnia where his mind paced too fervently to settle into slumber. It wasn’t like Subspace either, his attention spun outwards to encompass all and absorb none rather than to focus in on his Dom to the exclusion of everything else. His body felt heavy, non-responsive, a total disconnect between the physical state and the conscious and unconscious minds.

It was strange how easily his subconscious had switched to the past tense, the more accessible portion murmured, almost buried among notes of missed cobwebs and dancing shadows. Had been his room, had been his home. Twenty years sundered so quickly and easily, with nothing more than a final tour and parting glance.

The question followed him the next day, haunting him as he drifted through work. It wasn’t only his mind that felt disconnected with his body, wondering down thought paths Greg could feel and see yet not follow, but his body that felt out of sync with the world. He could see his limbs moving, see the hand holding the pen that moved over his paperwork, but it didn’t register as his. When he went to open the door he saw the hand miss, the handle just that small distance offset from where his body was reaching for.

Everything was out of focus, blurry around the edges and disappearing into fog at the corners of his vision. He felt sluggish as if his body were wading through treacle while his mind flew somewhere up above where the air was thin enough to make him dizzy.

By the end of the day the world was spinning round and round, as if suddenly he was able to feel the turn of the Earth and its rotation around the Sun. He felt like he was flying to pieces, but his feet were firmly on the ground, walking him away from the office in a different direction to usual, his new normal route home.

His body jumped as a car honked and rushed past. He couldn’t read the plate, couldn’t pick the type, its body blurring and leaking into the air turning it into a coloured blob. He didn’t know what colour.

The world, he realised belatedly, was black and white.

Greyscale people brushed past him on the pavement, obviously jostling his body because his feet moved side to side in his compromised sight, not merely back and forth. Some part of his brain was still working properly because he stopped at lights, turned at corners, and was going somewhere, hopefully to Mycroft’s. Hopefully home.

He was rootless, groundless, his body fastened to the pavement by gravity’s will alone. He’d severed home, surrendered his base, and there was nothing filling that supporting hole. Was this usual? This couldn’t be usual.

A child ran across his path, grey top, black trousers, white shoes with grey splashes of mud. His hair was mid-range grey, like the mud on his shoes, so it must be brown, a young laughing brown haired child who disappeared the second he wasn’t immediately in front of Greg. Real or phantom? Greg couldn’t tell.

He reached the end of the park and turned down another grey street. People always described London as grey, grey sky, grey weather, grey streets, but his memories told him that there was in fact so much colour, so much colour now he really did see it all in black and white and grey. Or not. There didn’t seem to be as many colours in his mind’s eye. He could almost see the colour bleeding out as he tried to remember the blue of the sky or the red of the flowers in the neat window boxes.

He let the knocker fall against the door. There was no thud, no banging noise that reached his ears. The grey door opened without a squeak, squeal or scrape.

Mycroft stood on the other side of the door. His creamy skin glowed, faint tan freckles not usually visible, but now in stark relief, scattered along his pink tinged cheeks and neck. The ginger tinge in his hair shone, lifting the strands from dull brown to gleaming chestnut. His thin lips were flushed peach, no raspberry. His suit was tan, warm, and his tie a vivid light blue that hurt Greg’s eyes even as he drank it in. The deep caramel and stunning cerulean highlighted the verdant flecks in Mycroft’s clear hazel eyes, giving a cat like luminescence.

“Gregory.” Mycroft’s voice vibrated through Greg’s body, penetrating his senses as chords of pure crystalline sound, reverberating through the fog and piercing his mind.

Mycroft extended a hand, warm apricot and cream.

“Welcome home.”

Greg took Mycroft’s hand.

The red door shut with a click behind him.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone. Sorry there was no update on Wednesday. I was trying to work out how to post the pictures that correspond to this chapter, and didn't quite manage it. Still haven't for AO3, so if you'd like to see them I suggest you go to my LJ and have a look at the photos for Mycroft's house there. They're not exact, obviously, nor are they mine, double obviously, but they might give you an idea of the feel if nothing else. 
> 
> http://melody-in-time.livejournal.com/9422.html
> 
> Warnings: Sex on the horizon!

Mycroft’s hand was warm in Greg’s, skin so soft it was almost dewy.

“I’m surprised you’re here.” Greg murmured as he was drawn gently in. “I thought the government kept all hours.”

“It’s only appropriate I am here to welcome you home the first time. Besides,” Mycroft’s words brushed across Greg’s lips, “you don’t have a key.”

“True.” Greg returned the phantom kiss.

Everything about the situation felt strange. He was out of work on time (paperwork was rarely inconsiderate enough to drop dead five minutes before shift’s end), he was standing in Mycroft’s lavish, but impersonal hallway rather than his own scuffed and marked one loaded with dodgy family photos from happier times, and most of all, for the first time in years, he was being met at the door and welcomed home after work.

Even before his collar was returned it had been years since he had been _welcomed_ home, and never like this. He’d never been welcomed home by savage eyes filled with a possessive knowing gleam or long elegant fingers cradling his wrist with such restrained violence that the gentle kiss of skin was a more sincere promise than Greg could have made with a whip in his hand.

With a sigh Greg drifted down Mycroft’s neck and buried his nose in the junction of skin and shirt collar, breathing in heady intoxicating scent of his Omega, guard collapsing safe in the knowledge he was in his Dom’s territory and could hand all he was over to someone else and let go, for the first time in his life, let go and merely drift and bask in his Omega’s commanding presence. It felt like shedding an ill-fitting suit or too tight second skin. It felt like home.

They stood there, Mycroft gently holding Greg’s hand as if it were fine china, his other curled loosely around Greg’s belt, just resting as they breathed. Greg wondered whether it was just him, or was Mycroft feeling something similar, some profound reaction to having Greg there in his house and arms to stay. He liked to believe so, liked to believe that he filled the same gaping hole in Mycroft’s psyche that he filled in Greg’s, and no amount of cautioning from his rationale mind that this was a relationship of convenience and one-sided devotion built around the very real result of a mistaken one-weekend stand could stop his traitorous Submissive side unfurling, purring and winding around Mycroft’s presence like a devoted feline, or stop the soft more insidious blossoming of hope in his heart.

“So responsive.” Mycroft murmured into his ear. “Denial like yours can go two ways, you know: development of a thick shield that dulls the senses or absolute longing and hypersensitivity, drawing you down with the merest verbal suggestion.” Mycroft’s fingers traced a line up Greg’s side allowing the dull drag of his nails through the cotton of Greg’s cheap work shirt. Greg shivered and felt his muscles slump, the responsibility for gravity delegated to Mycroft. “I think we know which one applies to you.”

Greg wasn’t ashamed of the whimper pressed into Mycroft’s throat. Later, far away in the outside world, then he’d be embarrassed by how easily he became putty in Mycroft’s manicured hands, but never there, never in those moments, senses saturated with the heady mix of pheromones and Dominance.

“I should give you the tour; show you more of your new home than the bedroom and the kitchen.”

“Those are the important ones.” Greg managed to say, a breathy exhale, but smoothly with no stuttering.

His reply was a soft huffing laugh and Mycroft pulling gently back, raising their linked hands. “Indeed, and we shall be spending much time in the former.”

A kiss was pressed to his wrist, Mycroft’s dark intense eyes making a mockery of the highly civil antiquated gesture. For whatever reason, in response to Greg’s own breached defences or from pure anticipation, Mycroft was not keeping a firm leash on his Dominance and it blazed through every pore.

“The tour.” Mycroft repeated and stepped firmly away, dropping Greg’s hand as he did.

The sudden loss of contact was comparable to gravity deciding to reassert itself with a sudden wave, causing Greg to stumble just the slightest. The twist of Mycroft’s lips and crinkles that appeared around his right eye were characteristic of humour: the more mischievous amusement Mycroft usually obtained by teasing Greg in his own subtle way until Greg caught on and threw a rude word or gesture into the mix to let Mycroft know he’d been found out. So in time honoured tradition, Greg flipped Mycroft a two fingered salute, but couldn’t keep the smile off his face.

“Yeah, yeah, smart arse. Lead on.”

Mycroft drew himself up and cleared his throat. “The original structure was built in-”

“Maybe not that detailed.” Greg broke in, knowing full well that with his head still floating somewhere above his actual skull nothing would be absorbed. “There is no way,” of their own accord his eyes lustfully scanned Mycroft head to toe and his cock twitched reminding him that it had been two weeks of another sort of teasing and that that was a very nice view, “that I’ll remember any of it. In fact,” he closed the distance between them in a slow saunter, “how about we go put that superb mattress of yours through its paces and you give me the grand tour later. Promise to make it worth your while.”

“Mmm,” Mycroft hummed as Greg leant up to kiss him. “Patience.”

He broke away, leaving Greg staring at his retreating back as he disappeared past the first door with a “I believe you’re familiar with the library” and a genteel wave, continuing down the corridor.

“Patience! Two bloody weeks, that’s effing patience.” Greg growled as he hurried to catch up, wishing he could slouch after Mycroft at a leisurely pace, but feeling totally unable to do so in the expensive surround.

It was hard enough to swear without feeling as though he ought to be rapped on the knuckles with a wooden spoon. If he used that sort of language in front of Mrs Potts, he suspected he would be.

“The drawing room.” Mycroft announced, opening a pair of well-polished doors to reveal his equivalent of Greg’s well abused sitting room.

The room was dominated by two floor-to-ceiling windows on the wall opposite the door. The curtains were a heavy fabric Greg thought was called brocade in mottled dark and olive greens and glinting gold thread. The walls were a dark brown wood panelled to create a repeating checkerboard effect. The wall to Greg’s right was host to a gigantic fireplace, which once the attention was taken from the immediately impressive windows, outshone them by a mile. The deep set space was massive, easily large enough for Greg to have lain into if it’d been empty and he’d been willing to curl up slightly, or to stand in if he’d been inclined to hunch.

There was a fireplace in the library at the front of the house as well, Greg recalled, and the two must back onto each other and share a chimney or something. Unlike his memory of the front room, the fireplace in this room was intricately covered with flourishes running up the pillars of the surround in thin stripes and a full hunting scene racing across the face. Set above the fox, hounds, horses, and riders, a rearing horse and hound supported what Greg assumed was the Holmes family crest. The detail was amazing to the point the banner unfurled above the device even appeared to have stitching around the edges.

“It is magnificent.” Mycroft’s voice broke the reverie Greg had unknowingly fallen into. “It alone is why Mummy moved the drawing room from its traditional place in the front and switched it with the library during the renovations.”

“I can understand that.” Greg skirted the riotous carpet in autumn colours that had to be an antique and followed the floorboards to the fireplace.

Up close it was as tall as him and even more details leapt out of the wood from flowing manes to individual hairs on the fox’s bushy tail and the hounds’ baying throats. A frozen progression in time that looked ready to run at a moment’s notice.

“Fide-”

“-sed cuivide.” Mycroft finished for him. “The Holmes family motto.”

“What does it mean?” Greg allowed one finger to trail along the wood. It felt as silky as it looked.

“Trust, but in whom take care.”

“Naturally.” Greg let his hand fall back and turned his attention to the rest of the room.

He almost felt sorry for the painting on the other wall. It was clearly a masterful work along similar hunting themes and covering almost the entire length of the wall, but in this room it would always be overshadowed by the fireplace behind him.

“I feel like I’ve been shrunk.”

Tall windows, huge fireplace, giant painting: the room only added to the general tumbled down the rabbit hole feel first Sherlock and then Mycroft had introduced into his life. Thankfully the couches and armchairs were usual sizes, though he imagined the green and brown seats had a more posh name then couch, else Greg would really have felt disorientated.

“It has that effect.” Mycroft moved to the door. “Shall we continue?”

“Uh yeah.” Greg followed him out of the sitting, the _Drawing_ _Room_ , thinking that he’d never seen such an Alpha room in his life. The room was impressive, but smacked of pure Dominant patronising Alpha-ness of the worst kind.

What had Mycroft thought of Greg’s flat and worn settee on all those occasions? No wonder he’d never eaten on the couch before. Greg rather suspected he himself had chowed down on his last takeaway in front of the TV given those couches.

He wasn’t even sure Mycroft had a TV. If the Drawing Room was characteristic of the whole house, a television would be terribly out of place.

“Of course I own a television, Gregory. It’s in the media room upstairs.”

Greg started and wondered how he’d given himself away that time, but overall was just relieved that there was such a recreational staple in the house. ‘Media Room’ sounded very promising, though the thought of Mycroft Holmes’s movie collection was vaguely terrifying.

The fact that Mycroft Holmes owned a move collection and wasn’t as ignorant of pop culture as Greg had always chosen to believe was even more terrifying.

On the other hand, he’d just bet that that it was full of documentaries and the familiar foreign films they used to watch at Greg’s. Apparently they weren’t rented.

“My study.”

Mycroft opened the door wide enough to allow Greg a glimpse of a forbidding antique desk, a sleek modern computer and neatly organised files surrounded by yet more filled bookshelves before the door was pulled firmly shut again. Obviously this room was off-limits, or as off-limits as a room could be in shared accommodation.

Greg could live with that. He had very little doubt that he wouldn’t be able to get into any of it, but he also didn’t doubt that the room contained some highly sensitive documents ranging well above even the Prime Minister’s pay grade.

“You are already acquainted with the kitchen. Maybe now you’re here tea and coffee will be allowed to be reintroduced to the pantry.” There was no mistaking the bitterness in Mycroft’s voice.

“I’ll manage without.” Greg replied without thinking in an automatic capitulation to their baby’s needs.

Mycroft turned just enough to send him a potent glare.

“If I have to.” Greg amended hastily. “Which I’m sure I won’t. Not that it matters as you can’t...drink...it...anyway...so...” His voice trailed off and died under the weight of Mycroft’s angry gaze.

“You’re right.” Mycroft smiled dangerously. “We should prevent temptation, shouldn’t we? I suppose you’ll just have to make do with herbal teas the same as me while I’m reduced to this unnecessarily strict dieting and nutrition regime.”

He stalked off past the kitchen and around the bend in the corridor.

“Should have kept my mouth shut.” Greg muttered. At least he had the brains not to tell Mycroft he was acting... off.

He followed after at a casual distance, pausing to admire the side table and vase to one side and the bucolic landscape on the other. The passage seemed almost claustrophobic after the space of the entry and other rooms. There was a door part way down that Mycroft walked straight past, but unlike the other doors this one had a lock and bolt and so must, Greg realised, led outside.

He’d never had a backyard before.

“The conservatory.” Mycroft didn’t open the door, merely waved in its general direction. “Feel free to go in if you wish, but the glass windows do very little to retain a pleasant ambient temperature in winter and I haven’t been running the heating in there.”

Purely because he’d never seen a conservatory before, Greg pushed the door open and immediately translated Mycroft’s comment into “go in if you want, but it’s an icebox.” A pretty icebox, but an icebox nonetheless. He shut the door quickly and resolved to go back and spend lots of time in there in summer, but not before.

“Dining room.”

This room Mycroft did enter. It was a handsome room with stained glass windows and –

“Are those suits of horse armour?”

“Why Gregory, I thought you had elected to forgo the commentary?”

“I meant the, seriously, horse armour?”

Mycroft looked delighted at Greg’s dumbfounded reaction, the slight glow in his eye suggesting to Greg that it was genuine enjoyment.

“Family heirlooms I’m afraid. Mummy retrieved them from storage during the refurbishment.”

“They’re amazing. Um, why the dining room?”

Mycroft shrugged. “It does not do to question Mummy.”

“Do you use this a lot then?” Greg trailed his finger along the enormous table that wouldn’t have fit in his kitchen with nothing else in there.

“Mummy used to hold dinners, and I have hosted a few occasions since I took the property as my primary residence, but not often, no. Mummy prefers guests travel to the estate and make a weekend of it.”

Greg let out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. He had no chance of keeping up at the kind of fancy dinner party Mycroft would hold and being asked to leave so Mycroft could have people over and not be embarrassed by him... the thought alone made him cringe.

“If I am going to entertain it will be at an establishment designed for such things. It would require too much from Mrs Potts at her stage of life. You need not be worried about being inconvenienced.”  

Mycroft had obviously picked up on Greg’s discomfort, and it wouldn’t have required a genius to tell Greg felt out of his depths, but in typical Holmes fashion he’d missed the real issue and all in all the reassurance felt more like a slap than a comfort, just in case Greg had needed reminding that they were from very different worlds, while standing in _this_ house, and that no matter what their relationship became he was not and never would be part of Mycroft’s in anything more than a peripheral way, friends or no.

“Besides which, this house is private. I invite very few people here now I do not have to.” Mycroft was deliberately studying the clock on the mantle of another fireplace.

Greg’s chest felt a little warmer.

Of course very few people came here. Mycroft lived a public image, was the dark shadow behind his own reputation, the monster under the world’s bed and the knight holding the flaming torch who took it on. To everyone he was someone, with a defined role he played to perfection, whether they believed that role peripheral or had some idea of the true scope it covered. Here, in this house, was the closest Mycroft could come to releasing the masks and being himself, just being Mycroft. Of course it was his sanctuary…

…and now Greg was living in it.

How many people had been here, how few trusted to walk through that door the way Greg had now done, completely unappreciative of the fact he could? Before everything began, before his confidence was shaken, Greg would never have doubted his importance to Mycroft, and he’d never been here before that night. Once the formal dinners to establish Mycroft’s position were concluded, how many people had Mycroft been able to show around his home and share it with?

How many people had been shown to share, rather than to have power and wealth impressed upon them?

Greg moved over to the fireplace and joined Mycroft pretending to study the clock. “Victorian?”

“French.”

“Huh.” Greg imagined the fiddly gold filigree would have been a nightmare to keep dusted and gleaming. “Tell me about it?”

“Really?” There was a heavy dose of sarcasm flavouring Mycroft’s voice, sarcasm that Greg was allowed to hear.

“Yeah, it’s um, pretty.”

“The word you’re looking for is gaudy, Gregory.” The edges of Mycroft’s lips twitched. “Louis XV circa 1750. It was smuggled out of France by the Vernet family during the French Revolution.”

“They saved the clock?” Greg blinked in shock. Yes there was a lot of gold, but surely not the most portable wealth they would have owned.

“It was valuable in both a monetary and emotional sense. A gift to Pierre-François Goddard de Beauchamps from a suitor who would later become his Bound and Bonded Alpha, François de Neufuille, Duc de Villerous, who was Louis’s tutor and whom Pierre had served as Secretary.

“Despite it being the fashion at the time François never took a female mistress in addition to his Omega. They genuine cared for each other and this was the prized symbol of that – an expensive gift for a lover, even an Omega, and one not appropriate from Master to Servant, suiting the mated pair they later became more than the causal tryst they were perceived at the time to be.”

“You know a lot about it.” Greg looked over the clock with new appreciation.

“The youngest of their sons made his home in England during the revolution. The last of his descendants was my Bearer’s Bearer. The story is as much a family heirloom as the clock itself.”

“Your grandfather? You’re French?” Greg couldn’t keep the grin off his face. “The British Government is French. I always knew there was a fundamental problem with this country.”

“Only half I’m afraid.” Mycroft placed a soft hand on Greg’s back and led him out of the dining room and down the hall, now turned so they were walking back towards the front of the house from the opposite side. “Unless you have any great interest we’ll move past the Billiard’s room-”

“You have an entire room dedicated to pool?” Greg added ‘learn to play pool well enough to beat Gregson next time they were down the pub’ to his list of things to do. His efforts last time had been abysmal.

“Naturally. The room was redesigned and the table installed during the 1920’s. Mummy left it mainly as it was during the recent renovations, though a new carpet was provided when the other rooms were redone. Should you wish to partake in a game all necessary equipment is in the cupboards.”

They reached the end of the passage and Greg realised that the front door was visible through the arch to his left and that they had just done a lap of the lower floor. Hidden from view of the door, tucked neatly behind the three feet of wall from arch to front wall were a coat and umbrella stand, complete with Mycroft’s overcoat and several umbrellas. The door to his right, it transpired, led to the parlour.

As they reached the top of the stairs Greg deliberately crowded his way into Mycroft’s personal space, allowing fingers to drift over his lower back suggestively in the hope that maybe, just maybe, they could take a tour of Mycroft’s impressive bed next, but the a tinge of Dominance in Mycroft’s address made it clear the use of Greg’s name was a reprimand, so with the greatest of reluctance Greg stepped back and tried to force down his simmering arousal.

The tour of the first floor was much the same as below, only now Mycroft kept a light commentary noting interesting historical antiques or providing snippets of information about various architectural features.

This floor was apparently composed entirely of bedrooms and bathrooms. Mycroft skirted the door to his room and opened the door after it instead, which was imaginatively named the Brown Room. As Mycroft’s room was also done in shades of brown this didn’t quite make sense to Greg, but then he supposed Mycroft’s room would be the Master Bedroom and confusion would be avoided. Besides, if you were going to name it for a colour, well, the Taupe Room sounded more than slightly strange and there weren’t enough touches of sky blue to really qualify as the Blue Room.

Mycroft didn’t bother displaying the bathroom and moved across the hallway to open the door opposite. “The Blue Room.”

It did explain why the Brown Room wasn’t the Blue Room. A few light blue accents would never compete with the rich royal sapphire of this room. The wallpaper, of course wallpaper because every room he’d seen had wallpaper, was simply patterned, flourishing lines that were maybe floral, maybe just intricate swirls, in a slightly darker navy zigzagging to create large square diamonds on the wall with similar flourishing navy devices in the centre of each diamond.

The wall opposite the door they had just entered had two large windows, curtains the same shade as the wall drawn back to let the light flow in over the pale carpet. The four poster bed on the right hand wall was a rich chocolate brown with matching side tables. A dark chest ran from the left hand wall partway across one of the windows, loaded with cushions in navy, white and royal blue. There was a side table next to it with a lamp, mostly hidden by the freestanding wardrobe. More furniture, chests of drawers with an expensive looking white and blue willow patterned vase on top, a small book case and a small table that was probably meant to be a dressing table, stood on the wall opposite the windows.

There were boxes on the floor in the centre of the room.

“I thought you might like this one as yours.”

His room. This was going to be his room. Logically Greg had known that he was going to have a room, somewhere to put his things, and that given the house it was going to be fancier than anything he’d ever had before, but this! A four poster bed! He, Gregory Lestrade, Detective Inspector at Scotland Yard, was going to have a four poster bed. Even if he didn’t plan on ever sleeping in it, expecting his nights would be spent curled around Mycroft, it was still beyond belief.

“Is it suitable?” Mycroft trailed gentle fingers down Greg’s arm. Seeking assurance Greg liked it? Greg hoped so.

“It’s... I can’t believe it’s mine.” He turned his head to face Mycroft and couldn’t resist placing a gentle kiss on his lips.

His room. Not yet, but it would be. He’d make it his, his own sanctuary where he could retreat when he needed to like Mycroft could retreat to his study giving them both space. A place to bring Mycroft when the Alpha was on edge and not satisfied that they were safe in their Dom’s territory, needing the reassurance of having Mycroft safe in Greg’s own space, inside Mycroft’s though it may be.

“I love it.” _I love you_.

“I’m glad.” Mycroft pressed his own gentle kiss on the corner of Greg’s lips. “No ensuite bathroom I’m afraid, but it is right next door.”

“I’ll survive.” Greg smiled.

The idea of him, who had never had one in his life, being upset because there was no ensuite.

“In that case.” Mycroft backed away and walked back out of the room.

Greg sighed and dropped his head against the door frame. It was harder to fight down his reaction to Mycroft’s presence this time, the protective possessive element resulting from the fact that he had Mycroft in what would be Greg’s space stirring up extra and more stubborn feelings from deep inside him, but he managed and when he was composed stepped out into the corridor where Mycroft was waiting and shut the door.

The next room was the Green Room, a room quite obviously designed for an Alpha Dom, with heavy furniture and dark green walls. The solid wooden bed had an inset iron head piece to allow it’s user to attach chains, whips, handcuffs and ties, and there were several other pieces of wrought iron artwork on the walls that were most likely not purely decorative. It reminded Greg strongly of the Drawing Room both in colour and tone.

“Whose room is this?” He asked.

“Mummy decorated it, but it was my Sire’s room.”

The room fit with what Greg was discovering of Holmes Senior’s personality.

“Mummy’s room.”

Greg choked on his next breath. Up until now the design style had been ostentatious and a little heavy with all the wallpaper and antiques, but in keeping with the age and style of the house and not over the top.

This room was the definition of over the top.

The walls were covered in blue wallpaper that unlike the walls in his room had a very strong and very flourish filled gold pattern. The paper was laid in panels with white wooden stripes running between the sections. The wood had gold glint painted on the profile, and paintings and photographs in gold frames hung over almost every surface of the wall and the bed... oh the bed.

The bed itself looked to be a typical sleigh shape, but the foot and headrest were covered in padded blue crushed silk. Light blue, not the same colour as the walls. Above the bed were two sets of curtains: a floral blue pattern that seemed to fall just against the wall and behind the bed, but was mostly obscured by curtains exactly the same as the wallpaper that fell in a tent like drape from a point at the ceiling. They were held back from the bed with large brass fixings next to the bed. And the pillows! Greg didn’t even try to count the number of pillows ranging from plain white to plain blue and the floral pattern on the curtain behind. A light blue blanket was folded across the end of the bed.

If the bed was fussy, it didn’t end there. The side tables were covered in lace clothes with lamps and vases and antiques over the surface. There was a chest at the end of the bed and a stripy blue armchair next to it. At the other end of the room a horse stood framed in another large gold gilt frame above a white marble fireplace, the mantle of which had a clock and candles and photographs and god knows what else on its surface. To either side were chests of drawers with yet more antique blue and white vases. In front of the fireplace stood two armchairs of a different white and blue floral pattern, a lamp, and some fluffy monstrosity that looked like fur across the floor.

Greg hoped it only looked like fur.

There was so much stuff in the room it took time to find the ever present window as the curtains matched the wallpaper and it was lost amongst the general clutter.

It worked. It some strange way it worked, but wow!

“It’s to Mummy’s tastes.” Mycroft looked a little pained as he closed the door.

Greg could understand why. While Mycroft seemed to have a very formal and ostentatious style, he also seemed to favour simplicity.

The other end of the hallway was yet another window, it appeared the fireplace and window taxes had been things that had happened to other people, not the Holmeses, and a sweeping Victorian reclining lounge was artistically placed next to it with a potted plant, this time in green and white patterned china. The wide space tapered off next to Mycroft’s room where there was another concealed stairway that lead to the second floor.

The first room Mycroft opened the door had polished wooden floors, a piano, and a music stand. The Music Room was almost empty looking after the organised mayhem of Mummy’s room, with minimal furniture beyond window seats, an elegant chair with no arms, presumably for playing a larger instrument, and the various storage shelves and drawers for music.

The next room Mycroft gave him a small smile before opening, and much to Greg’s delight, it transpired that the aforementioned TV was real and very expensive with a full surround sound system and more remotes than Greg knew what to do with. It was easily the most modern looking room of the house and the couch, which Greg just had to try, was a delight to sink into. Mycroft eventually dragged him off it, otherwise Greg would have been content to lie there all evening channel surfing, preferably with a naked Mycroft wrapped in his arms. This couch after all was leather, and leather could be wiped clean.

The last two rooms on the front and right side of the building were discounted as storage and not opened. Instead there was the red room that Greg thought he should dislike as the red and white was very in your face, but that he found strangely handsome in a way the Green Room and Mummy’s Room hadn’t been.

The final room was Sherlock’s.

Greg hadn’t been sure what to expect of Sherlock’s room given the state of 221B and his flats before that. Something utterly plain with scientific posters on the wall, or a total cluttered mess worse than Mummy’s? It was not what opening the door revealed.

The walls were black, deep dark black with even darker ornate velvet designs embossed onto the wallpaper. The floor was covered in a lush black carpet that contrasted sharply with the skirting boards and other architravings done in a stark white. There was very little furniture in the room, but what was there was all a mixture of black and white, tables with black iron legs supporting stunning white marble tops and glowing white lamps with black shades. Displayed prominently on the wall on a startling white shelf was a selection of whips and crops, with a realistic flower display in crimson, black and green displayed dead centre in a show of decorum that only drew the eye to the paraphernalia surrounding it.

The bed was a four poster affair of wrought iron, twisted and turned in such a way that even without anyone kneeling on it, it was clear where hands and feet would be attached in all manner of intricate poses. In stunning contrast to the room, the bedspread was dark crimson, shiny black sheets turned down over the top covered in crimson and red pillows, the clear inviting, teasing counter point. Unashamed hooks adorned the walls for use restraining a Sub, and there appeared to be some discrete black bolts under various tables.

The room was traditional in every element from the antique bed to the old fashioned wall paper, but the overall effect just did not fit the house. This was a room designed for one purpose and one purpose alone.

Sex.

“He was going through a rebellious phase and thought this was the best way to make himself a nuisance.” Mycroft explained in a bland tone, obviously use to the spectacle that was his brother’s room.

Greg swallowed hard, his mind providing very detailed images as to all the positions Sherlock could have been put into in this room, all the enticing views that would have been enjoyed by his partner. Sherlock was as pale and dark as his room, and the sight of his back criss-crossed in red marks from the kiss of a lash must have been spectacular.

“It’s uh-” He didn’t know what to say. Greg wasn’t even a Dom, but the idea of Sherlock making use of this room was mind blowing. “He really only had one purpose in mind didn’t he.”

Mycroft chuckled in his ear. “It’s never been used, though you are quite correct. He designed it to make an impact and annoy our Sire, and it did achieve its aims. He’s created quite an...atmosphere.”

Oh he had, he really had, and with Mycroft pressed right up against him and his cock half-hard in his pants all Greg could think about was how he would look tied with his limbs spread by those far apart restraints, open and at Mycroft’s mercy. He would never look as good in it as Sherlock, but Mycroft hadn’t seemed to mind the view in the past.

“Do you know why I saved this room until last, Gregory?” Mycroft’s voice was a deep rumble in his ear. “Because I know the effect it has on people, because I knew the effect it would have on you. Imagining it, aren’t you, what you would look like bound on the floor of this room. Trust me when I say Sherlock made sure to include some very advantageous specifications in his design, some little details that could be used to drive someone well past the edge of reason into pure bliss.”

Greg thought he whimpered. He wasn’t quite sure.

“I think we’ve seen enough of the house now, don’t you?” A teasing kiss was dropped on the back of his neck, Mycroft’s warm breath hovering over skin.

“Yeah, yeah, um, I’m, I’m good.” Greg was feeling a little light headed and more than a little hard.

“Then maybe we should go back down and refresh your memory of the Master Bedroom, hmm?” Teeth grazed the side of his neck, the slightest brush of tongue following after.

“God yes!”

He wanted to turn around and kiss Mycroft, thrust his tongue deep into his Omega’s mouth and throw him against a wall where they could rut against each other until they came in short, heaving pants, but that wouldn’t be enough, wouldn’t loosen the compressed ball of need lodged in his chest, wouldn’t scratch the deep seated itch he’d lived with his whole life until last December it’d been briefly sated and then flared back to an all-time high.

“ **Walk out the door.** ”

Greg started walking, letting the shiver of dominance run over his skin. He was slowly acclimatising to the feeling, it was no longer the shock it had been the first time Mycroft had focused it on him, but the tingling sensation never left nor did the bolt of arousal it always sent straight to the base of his spine.

“ **Walk down the stairs.** ”

The order came just as he’d reached the staircase. Obviously he wasn’t to make any move without an order, even though he knew how to get back to Mycroft’s room, so he paused at the bottom of the stairs for his next command.

“ **Turn**.”

He turned on the spot, chin tilting upwards automatically to look at Mycroft who had not stepped down of the last stair.

“So good.” Mycroft purred, the back of a hand running gently down Greg’s face. “Continue to learn this quickly, Gregory. **Walk to your right**.”

Greg did as told, breaking away from the caress to follow the order. He only made it a couple of steps before he stopped, facing the wall, unsure whether he was meant to go around the corner and continue down the corridor or wait for another command.

“ **Forward.** ” Mycroft solved his dilemma. “ **Right**.”

There were not that many stairs in the staircase, not many steps from Sherlock’s room or Mycroft’s to the stairs, but in the short distance Greg could feel himself going down, feel the way his body moved to open the door at Mycroft’s command before he even registered it in his mind.

Mycroft directed him to stand in the middle of the room, then smoothly stripped him of his jacket and belt. Greg was directed to remove his own shoes, and stood there waiting barefoot while Mycroft removed his suit jacket and walked casually over to the bedside table. He opened a variety of drawers, removing items and arranging them deliberately on the bedside table, though they were blocked from Greg’s view by Mycroft’s body.

“ **Remove your shirt**.”

Mycroft turned around and relaxed against the wooden surface. Greg began to remove the item with as much grace and sensuality as he could manage, which he admitted wasn’t much, but the hungry gaze never left Mycroft’s face so he supposed it wasn’t that bad.

“ **Undo your trousers.** ”

Clumsy fingers moved to the button and drew the zipper down, releasing some, but not enough of the pressure on his erection. Mycroft pushed off the bedside table and stalked towards him, shod feet making no sound on the carpeted floor.

“Oh, Gregory, the things I have planned for you.” Mycroft came to a halt in front of him, shoulders back and down as he worked every last one of the centimetre difference in their height. Fingers held his jaw in a pistol grip, tilting it so Mycroft’s eyes loomed in Greg’s vision. They were dark and fierce and almost cold while blazing so hot they burned. “It transpires you are quite inspiring in all manner of ways previously unexplored.”

Greg swallowed, trying hard not to lean into Mycroft. He hadn’t been told he was allowed to touch.

“The session starts now, Gregory. Until I say otherwise you may continue to talk.” Mycroft leaned closer, still holding Greg’s jaw, until their foreheads were pressed hard against each other. “I want to hear you scream.”

Greg shivered, the liquid heat at the base of his spine beginning to move around his groin.

“ **Push down your trousers and pants.** ”

Mycroft moved back carefully removing his tie, waistcoat and belt. Shoes were undone and placed neatly to the side while Greg watched and the heat spread. With precise movements Mycroft undid the first four buttons on his shirt and rolled his shirt sleeves to the elbow, the entire time maintaining the searing eye contact.

Finally his gaze broke and he moved back towards the bedside table. Now that Mycroft was to the side Greg was better able to see the contents: a bottle of lubricant, the riding crop, a coil of rope, and old fashioned hourglass timer. He’d seen similar timers in black wood filled with glowing white sand on display in Sherlock’s room, timers that having seen the drawer they were removed from took on a less innocent meaning.

Mycroft selected the riding crop, testing it’s flex against his hand before turning around. The sight of Mycroft in a rolled up shirt and obscenely tented bespoke trousers, wearing no shoes and casually dangling a riding crop, was more provocative than any spread in any special interest magazine, no matter how skimpy the outfit or tight the leather.

“God you’re...” Greg just stared, taking in the sight, unable to describe the rush of emotion it caused. His Dom, his Omega.

Beautiful.

No.

Magnificent.

“Why thank you, Gregory.” Mycroft circled him, swinging the crop loosely in one hand. His pace stayed slow, the circle’s progress marked by his phantom presence until he once again stood in front of Greg. “I’m rather enjoying the view myself, though I think we can improve it, don’t you?”

“Anything.” Greg whispered, slightly scared to know he meant it.

They hadn’t discussed many of the finer aspects of a session, what was allowed, what wasn’t, mainly because Greg didn’t believe Mycroft would rule anything out. Mycroft didn’t seem the type of Dom to have many limits.

“We’ll start with this.” Mycroft’s hands fondled Greg’s erection, stroking him firmly in a way that had Greg gasping in seconds. “Do you remember what I said would happen tonight Gregory?”

“Yes.” He ground out.

“What did I say, Gregory?” Mycroft’s fingers flicked over the top of his head causing Greg to lock his knees or fall on the floor.

Two weeks of touches, of hand jobs and blow jobs surrounded in Mycroft’s pheromone driven scent where only Mycroft was allowed to come, and even this was sufficient to bring Greg to the edge.

“You, you said that,” it was hard to concentrate, to gather the thoughts required to answer, “that you were going to ride me.”

“Correct, Gregory, but not complete. What else did I say?” Long fingers caressed his balls.

“You said, you said you were, that, oh Jesus Christ on a bicycle.” Greg bit his lip and tried frantically to stave off the orgasm he felt approaching.

“I said,” Mycroft’s midnight voice whispered in his ear, “that I was going to ride you for an hour, and then, only then, would you be allowed to come.” Something cool pressed against Greg’s cock, wrapping snugly around his testicles. “One day,” Mycroft continued, “I’ll expect you to be able to perform without aid, but for your first time I’m willing to allow you the help.” He stepped back favoured Greg with a long sweeping gaze. “It suits you.”

“You suit me.” Greg replied brazenly. He cocked his head flirtatiously. “So when do I get the chance to wear you?”

The riding crop flicked lightly across his nipples causing them to sting. “Any more of that from you and the next one lands across the offending body part.”

“You promise?” Greg asked, riding the drunken high of arousal and giddy happiness that he was there, that this was happening.

The crop flicked across his lips, hard enough to sting without drawing blood.

“To the bed.” Mycroft whispered, not needing to raise his voice to be heard. “ **Kneel**.”

Greg sunk to his knees, palms turned up on his knees to bare his wrists. Mycroft’s hand fisted in his hair and rolled his head side to side, baring the expanse of his neck, crop tracing over his chest.

“Undress me.” Mycroft didn’t use dominance in the command, but the lack was no less effective than the earlier loaded orders.

Greg went to stand, and the crop whipped lightning fast against his calves.

“From there.”

Reaching Greg could just reach the buttons he needed to on Mycroft’s shirt and slowly slid one after another through the little holes. Once the shirt hung open he let his hands drift tantalisingly over Mycroft’s skin, dancing over his nipples and returning to play and rub them into little peaks when he wasn’t chastised for the action. Leaning forward he placed his lips on Mycroft’s belly, gently kissing the slight roundness, scraping tongue and teeth across flesh until a light tap against his buttocks with the crop signified Mycroft was ready to move on.

It was difficult to push the shirt off Mycroft’s shoulders from where he was, but eventually the silky material slid down to catch on his forearms where the sleeves were rolled. Greg took great pleasure licking and kissing his way up each arm to slide the material down and then off, leaving Mycroft in his trousers alone. One arm reached behind Mycroft and slid under the waistband, teasing the edge of the pants Mycroft was wearing while the other undid the button and zip, lips caressing each centimetre of skin as the fly slid open to reveal it. His hands pushed the material down Mycroft’s legs, lips kissing his inner thigh, behind his knee, his calf as the final barriers of cloth fell to the floor, at which point Greg gently lifted first one foot, then the other, to free Mycroft completely.

“Beautiful.” Mycroft caressed Greg’s cheek with the crop. “Fetch the lubricant.”

Greg again went to stand and received the crop across his legs before he realised that Mycroft meant him to crawl the distance to the other end of the bed to fetch the bottle. He couldn’t stop the rush of blood to his face as he went, shuffling along on his hands and knees with his bound cock bobbing obscenely between his legs, but he didn’t try to deny the flutter of anticipation in his stomach.

Mycroft followed along behind him, settling himself on the bed as Greg reached the bottle of lube. He leant back on his elbows, legs spread wantonly before him.

“ **Prepare me**.”

Greg moaned and went to take the cap off the bottle, only to be stopped by the crop brushing gently over his knuckles.

“Use your mouth first.”

In the past two weeks Greg had racked up a number of blowjobs, Mycroft having found a number of convenient excuses to meet with Greg in the guise of sorting things for him to move in, but he didn’t think that was what Mycroft meant now. Nonetheless, he leant forward and took a greedy suck on Mycroft’s prominent erection, before tantalisingly kissing down the shaft and tonguing over his balls. Pressing back on Mycroft’s hip and sinking further into the floor himself, gave him access to Mycroft’s perineum where he spent a pleasant few minutes licking and sucking before moving that little bit further to nose at the precious, puckered opening beyond.

Tentatively he licked around the muscle, noting the slight spasm it gave at his flickering touches. Pressing harder he began to massage the tight ring with his tongue, occasionally sweeping back over Mycroft’s perineum or gently sucking on one or the other of his balls, actions which both elicited soft gasps above him. Eventually the muscle relaxed, and Greg hesitantly pressed the tip of his tongue inside. The moan he received was worth it and he began thrusting with his tongue enthusiastically, feeling Mycroft press back against him in abortive thrusts, steadily progressing to louder whimpers and moans.

“Fingers.” Mycroft’s hand landed in Greg’s hair, pulling him back and away. “Fingers, **now**.”

The lubricant bottle was settled next to his leg where it could be easily accessed, so Greg wasted no time sploshing a generous amount over his fingers and moving the first to Mycroft’s hole. His mouth fastened around Mycroft’s penis causing a reflexive gasp that Greg used to hide the introduction of his finger to the first knuckle. He ran it around the wet heat, pressing against the tight walls until they yielded and he could fit another finger alongside.

Mycroft moaned again and thrust into Greg’s mouth, forcing him to pull back slightly and lap at it with his tongue instead. He scissored his fingers, moving them round and round rather than in and out to stretch and made sure to tease around Mycroft’s prostate before stroking over it in one firm move.

“Enough.” Mycroft pressed down, fucking himself on Greg’s fingers in direct opposition to his words. Greg teasingly brushed over the little nub again, drawing another little moan from Mycroft’s lips.

“ **Enough**.”

Greg reluctantly pulled his fingers out.

“ **On the bed.** ” Mycroft rolled off the bed and waited impatiently as Greg scrambled up to take his place. “On your back.”

Greg rolled onto his back, and didn’t have to wait long before Mycroft’s slick hand was running up and down his shaft, causing his hips to thrust up off the bed in a driven need for contact.

“Relax.” Mycroft straddled him, grabbing the soft coil of rope from the bedside table. One end was tied to the bed head and then the rope was wrapped around and around Greg’s arm, over his shoulder and down the other end before being tied off, spreading Greg’s arms wide across the bed with just enough slack he could lie back with several pillows to prop up his head, but not so much he could move.

Then, in one slow motion, Mycroft sank down and seated himself fully on Greg’s shaft.

An animalistic groan worked its way out Greg’s mouth. “Fuck, fuck, oh fucking hell.”

“So profane.” Mycroft drew his fingers hard down Greg’s chest, leaving thin red lines where his nails bit into the skin. “Remember Gregory, one hour.”

Greg whimpered. Surely not, Mycroft wasn’t actually serious about that was he? In defiance of Greg’s hope, Mycroft fluidly turned over the hour glass timer and then slowly started moving.

It was the best kind of decadent hell, feeling the smooth glide of Mycroft’s body, the rhythm that started slow and controlled and built and built until ten minutes later Mycroft’s head was thrown back and he was riding Greg with abandon as Greg bucked wildly, body still craving the stimulation and driving towards release.

“Touch yourself. Mycroft, please want, I want to see.” Greg begged, unable to do more than push his hips up into the burning heat above him.

In response Mycroft lowered his hands to Greg’s chest and began to work his nipples to full hardness with soft strokes and sharp pinches even as he slammed down harder on Greg’s cock. Greg arched against him as the sensations flooded through his body, adding to the liquid pool that had grown to fill more than his belly and was making its way through his upper chest and down his arms.

Then Mycroft’s fingers moved, sliding down Greg’s body to where Mycroft’s cock was leaking over his stomach and began to stroke. Greg could feel it, feel the way Mycroft’s body was tightening around him, feel the way his leg muscles began to quiver with the strain as he pushed them faster and faster until with a deep throaty moan he came over Greg. The clamping down of Mycroft’s internal muscles on his cock would have tipped Greg over the edge, tried to, but he was still restrained by the cock ring and no matter how much he wanted to was unable to orgasm.

Eventually the spasms running through Mycroft’s body finished and he leant over to turn the hourglass on its side before pulling off to collapse on the bed next to Greg, one hand idly fondling his hair.

“Fifteen minutes. Not a bad start.”

“Why did you...?” Greg craned his head to look at the timer, horizontal now so no sand fell between the spheres.

“My dear Gregory,” Mycroft’s voice was satisfaction and chocolate. “I didn’t say an hour of sex. I said once I ride you for an hour, and there is a definite difference.”

A tender kiss was placed to the side of Greg’s mouth, sucking lightly on the area the crop had impacted making the whole area tingle as a sharp bolt of pain flared at the act.

“And Gregory,” Mycroft’s eyes were still wild, still alluded to the dark promises made by his voice, “we will do the whole hour.”


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I feel bad...
> 
> Warnings for a lot more sex

Mycroft dropped a kiss to Greg’s shoulder, one hand smoothing over his ribs, chasing the slight hollows he had developed during their disastrous ‘just friends’ period. Greg was gradually gaining back the weight he’d lost, but he was trying to do it in a controlled healthy manner rather than via fish and chips down the Pub. He had a very important reason not to have a heart attack before he was fifty now, though if he didn’t get some relief soon Mycroft was going to give him one as the hand had drifted down between Greg’s legs and was tugging his balls downward, releasing them from where they’d drawn up against his body, easing the tension while adding to the fire.

Greg didn’t know whether to buck his hips into the air or squirm into the touch in a bid for relief.

“My...” He fidgeted, seeking some satisfaction, some release. How long before Mycroft took him again? How long before he could come?

“Soon, Gregory, soon.” Mycroft’s lips trailed down Greg’s neck. “I know it’s hard. I won’t leave you waiting too long.”

Mycroft’s kisses feathered over Greg’s jaw before he licked his way smoothly into Greg’s mouth. His tongue mimicked their earlier frantic coupling, taking Greg’s mouth in hard strokes without a hint of remorse for the way he was practically devouring Greg whole. Greg pressed back against him, embracing the grounding sting in his lips in favour of meeting Mycroft stroke for passionate stroke.

Kisses could be gentle, they could be loving, they could be rough, they could be dirty. Tied to the bedpost, hovering shallowly in Subspace with his aching erection, Greg wanted dirty; dirty and passionate and driven and possessive, and he was more than happy to keep up his end to make it that way, drawing back to nip at Mycroft’s lips, sucking hard on his tongue, and generally contributing every filthy trick that had ever turned him on into the mix.

“Oh yes.” Mycroft broke away with a groan and threw his leg over Greg, reaching for the hourglass. As he turned it over, Mycroft lowered himself just enough so Greg could slide into him with a sharp thrust. “That’s it Gregory, come on, fuck me hard.”

Greg shuddered. The sound of such crude language in Mycroft’s polished upper class tones hadn’t failed to elicit a strong reaction from him yet and he pounded into Mycroft as hard and fast as his position allowed.

“Perfect, so perfect.” Mycroft pulled off causing Greg to whimper as he leant in for another searing kiss. “You have no idea what you do to me, Gregory, how you test my control.”

He seated himself back on Greg’s cock almost as an exclamation mark to his statement, preventing any of the thoughts trying to be heard in Greg’s head being verbalised as anything more than incoherent syllables.

Mycroft felt so good above him, a warm slick passage clamping down on his shaft with every glide. He was moving with him now, ensuring each withdrawal took them to the peak of Greg’s cock so every entry included the sizzling feeling of the glans re-penetrating, and that every thrust caressed every last centimetre, swallowing him down to where the leather cock ring still bound him tight.

It wasn’t long since their last round, but Mycroft’s cock, displayed perfectly in Greg’s reduced field of view, was half-hard and struggling to rise further. A pink flush had stained his cheek and spread down his chest, drawing attention to erect nipples and the distinct lack of chest hair, an omega trait. It was an inspiring sight and Greg drove harder into his partner.

Greg shuddered as Mycroft met his stroke. So hot, so wet. The smell was overpowering, a combination of pheromones, sweat and sex that if anything smelt more decadent than the feel of that velvety glide and the taut press of the silky ropes and the filthy feel of Mycroft’s come cooling on his chest that was _so_ _right_ and the sound of breathy moans and gasping breathing and slapping flesh punctuating cooling breezes that drifted over him as the air was shifted and caused the mess to cool and Mycroft moaned and his own cock was –

Mycroft gave one last whimper and lifted off Greg, shifting to kneel beside him instead, gasping slightly for breath.

“What’re you, why have you?” Greg’s voice was slurred and he tugged helplessly against the ropes binding his arms.

“Shh.” Mycroft gently smoothed Greg’s hair. “We’re just taking a break.”

“But we’re not-” Greg turned his head to the timer, sand still spilling in a regular trickle from top to bottom. “You haven’t come yet.”

“You were becoming overwhelmed. **Shh, shhh**.” His hand stroked Greg’s cheek, calming the knot of panic forming in his gut. “We were always going to stop for a period. It’s not advisable to spend more than half an hour wearing one of these in a session.” His hand dropped to the cock ring and began to loosen the binding knot. “I’m going to remove this now, Gregory, and you are **not** going to orgasm, you understand?”

Greg forced his fingers to release their grip on the bed.

“Do you **understand**?” Mycroft’s Dom voice rolled through him.

“Yes.” He gasped.

The sheets underneath were rasping against his sensitised skin and the silence as Mycroft removed the restraint hurt his ears. He jerked as Mycroft’s hand went to the ropes tying his arms to the bed head.

“But... but we’re not done. I thought you said-”

“ **Shh, shhh**. We have all night, Gregory.” Mycroft interrupted soothingly. “A little food, a drink,” he wrinkled his nose as he carefully lowered Greg’s arm to the bed, “maybe a shower.”

The blood rushing into Greg’s arm was painful in a good way, a numb tingling that bordered on just the right side of agony. He blinked again and felt certain stimulations retreat (the scratch of expensive bed sheets, the burning flow of cool air over sensitive wet skin, the empty echo of silence) in favour of more grounded realities (the fat feeling as blood returned to his arm, the congealing stickiness of lubricant, sweat and Mycroft’s release on his chest and cock, the deep seated ache in his balls).

“Shower would be nice.” His voice sounded hoarse. Had it been a few moments ago?

“Welcome back.” Mycroft lowered his other arm, coiled the rope and finally turned the timer on its side. His voice lost the faint burr of Dominance that had flavoured all his words, mostly unnoticed against the stronger orders, but a comforting timbre nonetheless.

“Sorry we didn’t make the hour.” Greg felt his cock wilt to slightly more than half mast with the lack of direct stimulation and changed atmosphere in the room.

No matter how turned on he’d been, he was not at the right end of his life to be sustaining a raging hard on that long, especially once Mycroft called a halt to the session.

“A break, Gregory; a pause or respite in the proceedings, not the end. I’m not done with you yet.”

Greg’s penis stirred, but failed to rise more than it was, desire notwithstanding.

However,” Mycroft continued, “now that we _have_ taken a respite I feel a shower has suddenly become a priority.”

Deceptively powerful thighs propelled Mycroft off the bed and he strolled casually toward the bathroom, utterly unconcerned about the issue of his own nakedness. It was a disorientating change from last time when Mycroft had had his dressing gown on before Greg had levered himself up to his elbows.

Greg’d almost started to wonder whether Mycroft was body conscious and had begun to speculate on body image issues especially in light of Sherlock’s continual jabs about Mycroft’s diet. Those speculations fell to pieces watching Mycroft’s casual progression to the bathroom, the same confidence characteristic of every aspect of Mycroft’s life shining through here.

Mycroft, Greg reflected with a sappy grin, had amazing legs. The nature of his desk job meant they weren’t overtly muscled, but they were toned and lean in a way that added the illusion of even more length. His suits were always well tailored, but shaped loosely with jackets disguising the sinfully plump rear. Greg’s grin widened in the smug knowledge that he was well acquainted with that rear and that he’d be buried deep inside it again soon. A hand lazily stroked his genitals in Alpha satisfaction.

“In your own time, Gregory.” Mycroft disappeared through the bathroom door, the sting of the rebuke lost against the riot of much more insistent satisfied/possessive/amazing/beautiful/smug/ _mine_ running through Greg’s head.

Moving his arms carefully Greg lifted up off the bed and walked across the uncluttered floor, eyes fixed on the open doorway his Omega had disappeared through. The echoing patter of water on tiles drifted out the door as Mycroft started the shower.

He had time for a brief thought that the bathroom was more modern than he’d anticipated before his gaze and mind were drawn to the singular focal point that was Mycroft.

In the shower.

Wet.

With rivulets of water sluicing over his back and streaming down his thighs, licking their way over the ample curves of his tantalising arse.

Mycroft’s hair was darkened by the water from his usual brown with hints of barely there chestnut to the sable more characteristic of the younger Holmes brother. Greg wished Mycroft’s hair was longer, suddenly wanted to know whether the whispering suggestion of curls in Mycroft’s dry hair lived up to its potential or fell straight under the weight of the longer strands.

Mouth-watering.

He wanted to sink his teeth into the creamy unblemished skin and suck until it was crimson, an obvious warning to any who went near that this Omega, this totally unique and utterly wonderful Dominant, was his.

Greg’s eyes roamed greedily over the exposed canvas. No need to mark the neck, no need to be so crass and obvious. No, his mark needed to be lower, more intimate, well away from the prying eyes of the public. Somewhere only a rival encroaching on Greg’s territory would see it and be warned. The delicate expanse of pale skin on the inner thigh maybe, or the slight depression of the lower back where any alpha daring to lick or kiss those gorgeous cheeks would be confronted with it at eye level.

In the shower Mycroft cocked his head and met Greg heated gaze for heated gaze.

“Care to join me?” His voice was once more a throaty rumble followed by the tiniest speck of Dominance.

“Oh yes!”

He was hard again, Greg realised as Mycroft favoured him with a long devouring sweep.

“Maybe you should fetch the timer first.” Mycroft opened the cap of one of the many bottles in the shower and the heavy scent of sandalwood filled the air.

“Maybe I-” Mycroft began lathering himself in graceful arching strokes. “Oh Jesus, timer.”

With great reluctance Greg fled the bathroom and moved as quickly as he could with the aching erection once again raging between his legs to the bedside table.

Careful not to disturb the sand, he carried it back to the bathroom and set it on the counter. In doing so he caught sight of himself in the mirror. Red marks with the finest of fibre patterns ran up his arms coiled like snakes in bright red against his skin. They didn’t hurt, he suspected they might feel raw later, and they looked spectacular. Each progressive loop was equal distance from the other, creating a regular pattern across his body that reflected how carefully he’d been bound. Taking into account the unsymmetrical nature of the human figure, not enough to be noticed, but enough to destroy the perfect mirroring of such a deceptively complex work, it displayed skill Greg could never achieve. Pressing his wrists together he could see now the marks on both arms matched, flowing easily from left to right, though they’d been bound individually.

Careful steps carried him to the glass walled shower and through the door Mycroft had left open.

“You took your time.” A lazy smile curled one side of his mouth, eyes half lidded in what could be pleasure, satisfaction, anticipation or plotting.

“I thought we were taking a break.” Greg murmured, pressing his nose into his favourite spot on Mycroft’s neck, pulling him flush back to front.

The shower had dampened Mycroft’s natural smell, but the water could do nothing for the phantom scent produced by his pheromones, which blended with the sandalwood body wash to create an effect intoxicatingly like the one Mycroft had exuded during Heat. A little extra spice and... Greg inhaled deeply.

“We were.” Mycroft chuckled, a slight hitch manifesting as Greg thumbed over a nipple.

“Mmm.” Greg hummed gently biting down.

His hand ghosted over Mycroft’s body, caressing and stroking. Fingers dug into Mycroft’s hip, massaging the underlying muscles.

“My,” Greg sighed and tongued over the bite mark on Mycroft’s neck. “My, I need...”

Mycroft pulled away and pushed the door open. “Timer.”

Greg stumbled out and flipped the timer to its upright position before dashing back under the spray. Mycroft turned and braced his hands against the wall, spreading his legs wide.

“ **Remember** Gregory, you may **not** come.”

Greg nuzzled the back of Mycroft’s neck, pressing fingers deep into the yielding passage, still slick with lubricant despite the shower and length of time since prep.

“ **Remember** , Gregory.”

“Yes.” He murmured, and, adjusting his position, removed his fingers and slid back into Mycroft’s body with one smooth stroke.

It was much harder to contain himself without the cock ring, much harder to prevent himself spilling on the first thrust. Greg paused on the upstroke, buried balls deep, as he struggled to contain himself, knowing that if he moved too soon or without exercising iron will he wouldn’t make the remaining time.

Slowly he gave an experimental shift, testing his limits, then gradually increased his pace.

“ **Touch me**.” Mycroft ordered pushing back to meet Greg’s thrust.

Leaning a hand forward to brace himself against the wall, Greg snaked his free hand around their bodies to grab hold of Mycroft’s cock, hidden from view, but hard and slick in his hand from water, body wash, and pre-come. The adjustment changed the angle of penetration and he felt Mycroft shudder underneath him as Greg’s cock dragged over his prostate.

Unintentionally Greg established a rhythm where Mycroft alternated between being impaled by his cock and having his own dick pushed into Greg’s firm grip.

“ **Harder.”**

Greg found it was easier with the commands. His own need was much less insistent, much easier to ignore, when he was focusing on Mycroft, trying to make every thrust brush over Mycroft’s prostate, trying to add a flick or a twist or a thumb glide over the head with every hand stroke, stimulating as many nerves as possible.

“ **Faster** , oh God, Gregory, **faster**.”

Abandoning the wall, Greg moved his hand to Mycroft’s hip. His fingers dug in as he pistonned as fast and hard as he could, muscles burning in his abdomen with the strain. The muscle ache was enough to cover the liquid burn that began to condense in his balls and spread until last minute when Greg finally realised and pushed himself off Mycroft, crowding himself against the mercifully cold glass as he struggled to hold back his orgasm.

He was mostly successful, small spurts of release covering the glass without any of the euphoria or relief associated with orgasm. His balls stayed aching, drawn up against his body, and his cock was stiff, verging on purple from the strain of staying erect so long. He whimpered.

“So beautiful.” Mycroft’s hand pulled him away from the glass and guided him to his knees under the shower spray. The timer had been turned on its side, less than a quarter of the sand remaining in one of the bulbs. “So beautiful.”

His mouth was guided to Mycroft’s erection, salty tasting from the pre-come not yet washed away from the water. The droplets falling from the shower head forced him to close his eyes, one hand wrapped around Mycroft’s hip for balance as he suckled greedily.

The water wasn’t able to wash clean the air and the salty tang of sex had added itself to the musky pheromones, sandalwood, and ginger mess of scents.

His hand gently fondled Mycroft’s testicles running them gently around in his palm. Greg could feel them drawing up closer to Mycroft’s body and sucked hard on the tip.

Mycroft groaned aloud and pushed at Greg’s shoulder. With an obscene pop Greg let Mycroft’s cock fall from his lips and peered up at Mycroft as best he could, eyes half lidded against the water spray.

The shower door was pushed open and Mycroft stepped out, collecting a towel from the rack along the way. One end was rubbed through his hair, the other end trailing over his shoulder, tip just brushing the top of his buttocks and failing completely to cover his raging erection.

“ **Bedroom**.” He whispered, voice dark as midnight. He snatched up the timer and left the room.

Greg stumbled to his feet and pawed at the shower controls until it was off. There was only one bath towel lying in the doorway where Mycroft had discarded it on his way to the bed. Not wanting to soak the sheets, Greg snatched it up and roughly dried himself off as he crossed the room back to the bed.

Mycroft was kneeling on the bed, facing Greg as he approached, one hand imperiously out-stretched. Once Greg was in reach, it reeled him in, pulling him up on the bed next to Mycroft and into a burning meshing of lips.

“Less than ten minutes.” Mycroft whispered into Greg’s mouth, “but don’t think that if you come before then we won’t be starting again. Two weeks of denial and a full hour fucking me – from the beginning. So you won’t come, will you Gregory? Not until you’re allowed?”

Teeth gently held Greg’s lip, tugging so to reawaken the stinging reminder of the lash he’d taken across them as punishment earlier.

“No.”

“No, what?” Mycroft’s voice was hard.

“No, I won’t come, Master.”

“Good.” Mycroft purred, turning on the bed to face the other way. “Then fuck me.”

It was the shower all over again, pressed up tight against Mycroft’s back, balls deep and thrusting mindlessly as he focused every ounce of concentration he had on his Dom’s body. Fingers ran up and down Mycroft’s cock, movements smoothed by the last lingering drops of water and slowly beading pre-come they collected from the tip as Greg tried to drive Mycroft to the edge he was rapidly approaching himself. Greg’s ears were filled with the slap of skin, breathy groans and poignant whimpers as he stroked over the sensitive bundle of nerves again and again, interrupted only by gasping commands to go **deeper** _,_ **faster** and **harder.**

With a needy growl of his own Greg pushed Mycroft forward, forcing him to his hands and knees for balance as Mycroft’s Dominance overrode tired muscles and aching joints to pound and pound and pound.

Feeling his palm start to catch on Mycroft’s erection and unwilling to pull out to coat his hand with the lubricant sitting next to the not so innocent hourglass on the bedside table just out of reach, Greg shifted his weight and brought a hand to Mycroft’s mouth in silent offering. It was several more thrusts before Mycroft accepted, drawing Greg’s fingers into his mouth and licking over his palm.

“ **Enough**.” Mycroft growled and Greg obediently returned his hand to its former position between Mycroft’s legs. A delightful shudder passed through Mycroft’s body as he did, timing playing out so that the stroke with his hand coincided with a jab to Mycroft’s prostate.

“Almost there, Gregory, almost... oh, again. Again, again, again-” Mycroft came with a shivery moan, almost enough to be a wail.

He had to hold back, he hadn’t been told the time was up, but it was hard, so, so hard with Mycroft clenching tight around him as the Omega rode out his own pleasure. Greg wasn’t sure whether he was still allowed to move as Mycroft would be over-sensitised now. Was he meant to stop and pull out? He didn’t want to leave that delectable heat and snapped his hips involuntarily forward. Despite riding out the last tremors of pleasure, Mycroft pushed back against him and Greg took that as a signal to keep going.

The sand was trickling more slowly now, it had to be, as there had been barely any left and there was still barely any left in the upper bulb. Greg kept his eyes fastened on the white trickle as long as he could until a particularly deep thrust as Mycroft flexed internal muscles around him forced his eyes closed.

Breathe, just breathe. Focus. He was almost there and he hoped to God the time was too because the _ocean_ of hot liquid arousal and need was shifting and spreading into his cock and balls and no mental storm levy could hold back this tide.

“ **Come** for me Gregory.”

The heat exploded out his cock and backwashed arousal through Greg’s whole body until every limb was tingling and every nerve ablaze. A wild shout left his mouth as he emptied into Mycroft, shuddering helplessly as he lay splayed over Mycroft’s supporting body, and his vision went white, then grey and descended into black.

When Greg came back to himself he had no idea how much time had passed. The room had been picked up and the toys packed away neatly out of sight. The curtains were drawn leaving him no way of knowing whether or not it as still dusk outside or had descended into true nights.

Most importantly, Mycroft sat in the overstuffed brown chair from the dressing table, turned to face the bed. He’d clearly showered again and redressed, but how long ago Greg couldn’t be sure.

It was nice, comforting, to wake up with a partner there, even better when it was your lover not merely a tawdry one night stand of the sort Greg hadn’t successfully engaged in in years. It would have been better again if Mycroft had been in the bed, but given the amount of work the Dom probably had to catch up on, the fact that he was still there at all made Greg smile.

“Welcome back.” Mycroft closed file he’d been reading.

Greg was sure he didn’t want to know what exactly was in there. He rather suspected it was a ‘if I tell you, I’ll have to kill you’ thing.

“Not quite, but they are confidential so if you would continue to restrain your curiosity that would be appreciated.”

“Would’ve thought you’d read downstairs.” Greg muttered in sleepy contentment, still trying to reconnect various parts of his brain and body.

“That would have been incredibly poor form. How’re you feeling?”

Greg smiled and struggled lethargically with his mind for the right word.

“Blissed out.” He eventually decided. “You?” He frowned, an element of seriousness bleeding through. “You’re not too sore are you? I didn’t-”

Mycroft quirked an eyebrow. “I will most definitely be feeling the results of our exertions through tomorrow, but it is not unbearable. Besides, I believe you’d rather enjoy the thought that I’ll be sitting in a meeting with the Prime Minister feeling the burn as I try not to shift in my seat.”

Greg swallowed, mouth suddenly very dry, and regretted instantly how exhausted his body was, unable to even raise his arms off the bed. Otherwise...if he weren’t so totally boneless...

“That...” He swallowed. “That makes me wish I was twenty years younger and could really give you something to feel.”

Mycroft walking through the hallowed houses of government, the hidden corridors of the secret service, maybe the palace, with every step reminding him of Greg, of what his lover had done to him and how enthusiastically he’d done it, wearing secret marks left by Greg totally unknown to the suave official, diplomat or politician he was meeting with... It was a kink Greg hadn’t been aware he had.

“Fascinating.” Mycroft obviously noted the blatant signs of arousal at the thought. “While I don’t mind indulging you Gregory, I do hope you’ll keep your possessive instincts in check and limit the visual displays.”

Greg huffed lightly into the pillow he face was buried in, knowing that Mycroft was serious, but amused. In a burst of activity he wiggled his toes and flexed his biceps. He should probably roll over. Falling asleep on his front was becoming a habit his neck most definitely did not appreciate.

“I’m sorry we had to stop.” He frowned, pride more than a little stung that he hadn’t managed to meet his Dom’s expectations.

“Nothing to apologise for, Gregory, as I’ve already mentioned. Besides which,” a faint glimmer of a smile tugging at Mycroft’s thin lips, “I did appreciate the short respite from the festivities myself.”

“Mmm.” Greg pressed down into the expensive pillow until the end hid Mycroft’s face. “I could have kept going.”

“No, you couldn’t have. Maybe one day, Gregory, but not today.”

“Mumph.” Greg didn’t try to characterise the sound he made though something along the lines of a sighing-grumble-mert. Whatever a mert was, it sounded accurate.

“ **Gregory**.” The tone of voice was its own warning and Greg lifted his head. Mycroft’s eyes were magnetic, commanding total attention and absolute eye contact. “I will take you to your limits, and then take you further, beyond what you ever thought you could do, but I am not a pathetic low level Dominant fuelled by macho arrogance with no patience, who will push you off a cliff with no thought to the bottom. I will not rush this. I will not break you through self-serving ignorance. I will repeatedly take you to the edge and I **will** throw you over, but when I do, Gregory, you **will** fly.”

Greg swallowed convulsively and Mycroft scaled back his gaze, allowing Greg to break eye contact. It sounded like a vow of some kind, the sort a Bound Dom would give his Sub, and the possibilities, hopes and fears made Greg’s head ache and heart pound.

“Do you have to go to the office tomorrow?” He asked, moving the conversation out of the maelstrom and back to level ground.

“For some time, yes. I have several meetings tomorrow.” Mycroft turned his attention back to his file.

“With the Prime Minister?”

Mycroft scowled at the poorly hidden glee in Greg’s voice. “Yes, you unprincipled policeman, with the Prime Minister.”

Greg laughed outright, and extended a hand.

“Come to bed.” He whispered, made more than a little brazen by the warm swell in his chest.

Mycroft paused, weighing the file in his hand and the work no doubt spread over his desk against sleep and a warm body. Greg had no illusions that Mycroft hadn’t intended to put in several more hours that evening before succumbing to sleep, if he even did.

Greg had never spent the night with Mycroft, never curled around his body in sleep. Not since Mycroft’s Heat anyway, so not within actual memory, and the last time they’d woken in bed together Mycroft had run from him. He needed this more than he could put into words.

“Please?” The fingers on his outstretched hand twitched.

“Let me return the files.”


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've had some fluff, we've had some sex, now, sadly, back to the angst. 
> 
> Warnings: Temper Tantrums and pride

Greg hummed as he walked down the street case file in hand. The review board had returned its decision and as long as he met all their standards and milestones he was once again cleared for duty.

The hearings hadn’t been too tortuous, but only because he’d known there was nothing to find. He’d answered their questions openly and honestly, they’d thought, and happily provided details regarding his rehabilitation measures: meetings, counselling, financial advisor (generously paid for by Mycroft). He’d spent some time gushing over Mycroft’s contributions to his life from accommodation to advice and even a short term loan (of Greg’s own money), and he rather thought the sincerity he’d displayed there had made up for some of the other rather lacklustre spots in his performance.

Sitting with the auditor from IA had been much more nerve wracking as try as he always did to ensure his case files were kept to NSY’s standards to avoid trouble in Court, he was not perfect and forgetting some of the mounds of bureaucracy generated by the Yard hadn’t sunk a case yet, so his standards had certainly slipped over the years. He wasn’t alone, every DI in the Yard skipped Process Control Form 0042 (PCF42), for example, but they weren’t under review and he was. Luckily one of the first things Mycroft had sorted into their fledgling acquaintance were the legalities around Sherlock’s help, so while the Yard didn’t _like_ to use him because of his attitude, methods (and gender) there wasn’t actually anything wrong with Greg bringing him in on cases.

Thank God, because going through the case files Greg was forced to acknowledge how often he did call Sherlock for help and if Mycroft hadn’t taken precautions.... at the very least Greg’s career would be finished and all his cases appealed before the court.

Of course, completing the paperwork Sherlock was meant to fill out as an official consultant was much easier now John was around and instead of Greg attempting to write up Sherlock’s deductions for the detective to sign, .John wrote them up and even managed to get Sherlock’s input (and signature in multiples of five). Luckily he didn’t get too much of Sherlock’s input and the final statement was still comprehensible to the average copper and less insulting to the world at large than Sherlock would have preferred. If John’s renditions tended to gloss over what Greg suspected were the proceedings of frequently less than legal activities, Greg also knew better than to read too closely.

John had even managed to get Sherlock to sign the backlog of statements from the past three years, something Greg was truly grateful for as the auditor pawed through the files.

They weren’t perfect, he hadn’t dotted every i and crossed every t, but all the necessary paperwork had been grudgingly done and filed, and although a vast number of his cases had been noted as missing things (such as PCF42) it wasn’t enough for any of them to fail yet not so complete they looked artificial.

Even better, his enforced break from cases meant all the administrative crap he had to deal with was done too. His various licences were up to date, he’d taken the required refresher courses and continuous learning seminars for the next (and last) twelve months, his medical was renewed (with a warning to keep an eye on his cholesterol) and his staff reviews were written, edited and submitted. He’d filled out overtime slips (never too out of date or he’d have a riot in the bullpen) and even carefully created a spreadsheet in Microsoft Excel to keep track of things, thanks in no small part to the help function, Google, and Sally, who was _sort of_ speaking to him, and _sort of_ not still giving him the cold shoulder over everything that had happened. It probably didn’t help that her tumultuous relationship with Anderson was off again, but she was slowly responding to his stream of demotivational posters and funny cat videos from youtube. He wasn’t out of the woods yet, but at least he was able to see the tree line.

Now he had his first case back on the job and it was a good one. He’d noticed some time ago he tended to be assigned more of the gruesome, challenging, mysterious and outright bizarre cases than the other DIs, even when scheduling and caseloads dictated that by rights they should have gone to one of his colleagues. It didn’t take a genius to work out it was because of, as reluctant as the Yard was to have anything to do with him, Sherlock. The fact that the other DIs didn’t want to work with him didn’t mean they didn’t want the cases solved. Inbuilt prejudices aside, they weren’t bad people, even Gregson, and if they couldn’t stomach him for the length of a case, at least they’d ensure that Greg who could got the cases they needed Sherlock’s help on.

Mostly.

There were plenty of cases they needed Sherlock on and refused to admit it, especially after he Bonded, but Greg getting this case as his first one back made him wonder whether maybe, _just maybe_ , the Yard’s crusty old attitude might be shifting concerning their consulting genius.

That was Greg’s preferred view of the facts anyway. The alternative, that his colleagues were too lazy to even try to solve the complicated ones or that they were actively angling for Greg to fail by flooding him with what they viewed as dead end mysteries, didn’t bare thinking about. He didn’t believe either of those, well, maybe a little with some of the older, more sedentary DIs, but he refused to believe it was a general attitude outside the usual percentage of arseholes that inhabited every workplace. As a whole, the Yard was a family and like or hate, family didn’t do that.

So here he was heading down Baker Street with a small apology clasped in his hand and hopefully some small relief for John. A year ago it wouldn’t have been a huge problem that Greg spent a month on desk duty with no cases, but a year ago the other officers down at the Yard were still willing to call in the arrogant Alpha Dom consultant with the mystical magical answers. Potentially changing attitude or not, they were not willing to work with the Omega Sub so a lack of cases for Greg meant a lack for Sherlock. As there currently seemed to be a drought of puzzles from the website, Sherlock had been left high and dry for a month, growing increasingly aggravated with Greg and his artificially contrived suspension.

Greg felt honestly sorry for John, knowing that his fellow Alpha would have been bearing the full brunt of Sherlock’s increasingly caustic wit and volatile moods in an effort to save the flat from utter annihilation. With any luck this would at least provide him with some respite and once Sherlock had solved it and collapsed, maybe even some rest.

Whistling softly Greg let himself in to 221 using the key Mrs Hudson had provided for him after yet another 3am wake-up to return one, the other, or both of her semi-conscious, possibly bleeding (once very drunk), tenants. As Sherlock appeared to have a distaste for answering the door the key was of particular use when John was at work and Mrs Hudson otherwise occupied.

Mycroft, he thought smugly, didn’t have a key. Greg was trying very hard not to rub the fact he did in Mycroft’s face. Mycroft knew, of course he knew, but so far Greg had refrained from using it in his presence.

His head whirling with thoughts about the case, a rather ordinary suicide if the man weren’t on five separate police watch lists, it took him twelve of the seventeen steps to realise something was off and another two for the _scent_ to penetrate his distracted mind and the pieces to fall together, after which he turned tail and fled down the stairs.

This, Greg swore, was very inconvenient timing. He didn’t need Sherlock on this one, but it’d be two or three cases in his backlog before the end of the day and he’d wanted to get a good start before they landed on his desk. Luckily his mind hadn’t been too far away because God that could have been embarrassing.

“Gregory.” There was the slightest questioning lilt to Mycroft’s voice, without asking the question outright. He was probably wondering why Greg was standing on the pavement outside 221B Baker Street flushing bright red with a file in his hand.

“Mycroft. Here for?” Greg waved a hand that took in Mycroft’s briefcase and the building behind it.

“Yes, I thought Sherlock might be desperate enough by now to take some legwork off my hands, though I see you’ve had a similar idea and still have the file. Maybe this one will be more to his interests.”

Mycroft turned to continue his way into the building, causing Greg to grab wildly at his passing arm. Luckily living together for the past two weeks had given Greg some immunity to the seemingly endless pheromones Mycroft’s body was producing else things may have ended up even more embarrassing than they already were.

“You _really_ don’t want to go up there.” Greg knew he went a deeper shade of red at the reminder of exactly what was going on upstairs.

“I...see.” Mycroft stepped off the verge and back onto the street. He clicked his tongue in annoyance. “Trust my brother to succumb to an Estrus cycle just when he might actually be useful.”

“Better than him shooting the wall.”

“Oh I have no doubt the good doctor is most heartily in favour of this... method of distraction.”

“Yeah, thanks Mycroft.” Greg winced. “Was trying really hard not to think about what might be going on up there.”

“With any luck the conception of my nephew.” Mycroft blithely replied. “The mechanics are predictable in such a situation. During Estrus there are rarely large quantities of creativity involved.”

Greg covered his ears and dramatically shook his head, eyes shut tight as he attempted to rid himself of the mental images.

“It’s merely biology, Gregory.” There was a hint of reproach in Mycroft’s voice, as though because he was perfectly comfortable discussing his baby brother’s sex life Greg should be as well.

“It’s your brother and my friend. There is no ‘merely biology’ about it.”

“As you insist, Gregory.” It was typical Holmesian capitulation whereby you won nothing and were left feeling totally unreasonably in the wrong. “I’ll be late this evening.”

“You will eat though?” Greg couldn’t help the instinctive worry.

“Yes, so there is no need to leave leftovers.” Mycroft couldn’t quite hide his nose’s crinkle of distaste.

Leftovers were one of those areas they’d discovered they didn’t match and had been forced to compromise. Overall they’d settled in together almost supernaturally well, aided no doubt by pheromones smoothing the way, but there were spots of contention and a number of them surrounded the fridge.

Mycroft believed in portion control and only ever cooked what his ridiculously strict eating regime dictated as a meal, meaning he always cleaned his plate. Greg on the other hand grew up with leftovers, _survived_ to this day on eating the remains of a big meal or two at a later date. The compromise was that Greg could have his leftovers, but whatever he didn’t eat for lunch the next day was disposed of. There would be no four day old mystery Chinese in Mycroft’s fridge.

There was to be very little takeaway in the house, something Greg had conceded on the basis of preservatives and various additives. Not none, after all they’d always eaten takeaway together in the past, but certain culinary choices had been removed from the pool by Mrs Potts, a large article regarding the effect of certain compounds on developing minds left taped prominently to the fridge.

Pizza had been taken out of contention as well, but that was entirely due to the fat, grease and general un-healthiness of the food. It was one of the few things Mycroft had outright put his foot down about and banned, something Greg suspected he’d been trying to do since Greg had first presented him with a takeaway pizza.

“Will do.” Greg threw Mycroft a sloppy salute which garnered an eye roll as Mycroft moved to the car.

“Mycroft.” Greg called nervously as the car door opened. “Do you think... is there much chance...” He trailed off and jerked a thumb at the door to 221.

“I hope so. Until this evening, Gregory.” Mycroft slid into the car which silently pulled away from the kerb and down the street.

So no Mycroft tonight and Greg had an Arsenal game recorded on the expensive PVR. Greg walked back towards the tube, whistling the Arsenal theme. A bit of good old fashioned police work, then a disgustingly greasy takeaway pizza in front of the TV with a beer. As long as he disposed of evidence, Mycroft need never know.

All in all, life was good.

It was a week before Greg saw hide or hair of either of the Baker Street duo. It wasn’t that unusual, he certainly went longer without seeing them normally, but this was different. He knew how much a child would mean to John and Sherlock, and _he_ was nervous for them. God only knows how they felt, but Greg was stretched to a wire.

He’d been trying to work out when to contact them, the ‘suicide’ had actually proven to be a suicide (apparently being filthy rich wasn’t enough when everyone hated you), but Greg had now added two murders and a potential sexual assault to his case list and he would have appreciated Sherlock’s help with one of the murders. It was just so hard to predict a good time to call. Heat usually lasted three to four days, but could be as long as six for a Bonded pair. Even after the cycle, most Alphas, when they weren’t kicked out straight afterwards like Greg had been (and to be fair, 60% of other Alphas as well), preferred to pamper their Omegas, making sure they ate, ensuring they had adequate sleep, massaging sore limbs until they normally got forcibly evicted by their overcrowded Omegas as well, Bonded or no.

Most people enjoyed a little pampering. An Alpha caring for the potential bearer of their child after Heat was well and truly into overbearing, and even the most mild mannered and submissive Omega had a limit.

Sherlock was Sherlock.

There was a definite limit to how much fussing John would be allowed.

On the other hand, Sherlock had been in strife with his Alpha not that long ago, so an increased fussing threshold? Two days or three? Four? They’d been out in public one day after Heat last time, but there had just been another serial murder and there wasn’t much Sherlock wouldn’t manage to get waved, voided, or otherwise removed from his path for a serial killer. If the victim had turned up a day earlier, Greg wouldn’t have been surprised if Sherlock had telepathically known and shown up still in Heat.

He assumed the day he’d turned up at Baker Street had been the start of Sherlock’s cycle else Mycroft would have known. That had been Wednesday, it was now Thursday week, which meant Sherlock and John would be free anytime from four days ago to three days hence.

With a sigh Greg dragged his attention back to Anderson’s forensic report on the sexual assault site. Apparently Botany had matched the plant matter on the complainant’s clothes to the area the supposed assault had occurred, confirming the possible crime scene, and the Medical report confirmed there had been sex. The problem, as ever haunted rape cases in remote areas with no witnesses, was consent. It was going to come down to a ‘he said, she said’ and who was more convincing before the jury.

He hated these cases; there was always so little the police work could add once the sexual act had been established, and it was always heart breaking to see the toll on the victims in Court, worse than any murder, as every aspect of their life and character was aired to the world, measured, shredded, and analysed by strangers, whether the law said it should be or not.

It would be nice, he mused, if Sherlock and John got pregnant this time around. God knows he still couldn’t see the younger detective as a parent, but Sherlock and John both wanted it and their kids could grow up together. It wasn’t as if his son was ever going to have a brother, so a cousin around the same age would be the next best thing. It would certainly be convenient for day care and babysitting though, Greg tapped his pen idly against the report, he could also see it degenerating into a ‘my baby is better than your baby’ rivalry between the brothers. He could already tell he and John would need to keep an eye on that to stop every milestone becoming ammunition.

It’d be good though. They’d only need one more player for the five-a-side father and sons indoor football competition he’d found. Mycroft would never play, but maybe Sherlock.... no, okay, that was a silly idea, but four was a good start and with another father-son duo they’d even have an alternate to sit on the bench.

John’d probably want the kids to play rugby like he had, but that could wait until the boys were older and until then Greg would take them for football. They would, of course, be Arsenal supporters. John could choose their rugby team, but he was not so involved in football that any of his vague misguided Tottenham sympathies would be allowed to infect the younger generation. Greg was sure they could reach an acceptable compromise. If not, his son would grow up supporting France in the rugby, just because Greg could. (With that hanging over his head as a threat, Greg rather expected John to concede).

Even better, this way the little tyke’d have someone he knew to go to school with him. Greg didn’t even entertain a passing fancy he’d win the schooling argument, and wasn’t even sure he wanted to try. He wasn’t keen on the idea of his son going away to school, but Eton was Eton, a very large improvement on the local comprehensive Greg was an alumni of, and surely if he were going with his cousin it wouldn’t be too bad. Not every kid who came out of public school was as emotionally stunted as the Holmeses.

Maybe a local school for the first few years before Eton, or would that cause problems for him once he got there? Greg was no stranger to bullying, personally or professionally. As a kid he’d come home covered in cuts and bruises more often than not from fights, a good portion of them against bullies, though he’d be lying if he tried to claim the majority. Truth was, given his family, he’d just been an angry kid.

Some of those fights though _had_ been against bullies of the physical sort, and since joining the police and then the Yard he’d been exposed to the more insidious forms – the hushed whispers from girls, the ostracizing snubs of the well off, and increasingly, cyber-bullying because common sense seemed to have skipped this generation entirely and there was no filter between fingers, Facebook and the world.

He never was called in for the physical bullying that had seen him suspended for fighting so many times, Alpha pride and rash macho need to cover up his lack of Dominance with fists not helping his temper, but these more toxic types of bullying he was starting to see more and more, usually when the victim snapped and killed either themselves or their persecutor. So far they hadn’t had any of the mass killing sprees so common in the United States, but Greg wondered how long things could continue along their downward spiral before someone felt trapped into going that route. 

As a policeman, the waste of young life was draining. As a future father, it was terrifying.

He’d have to talk to Sherlock. It was no use talking to Mycroft. Even if Mycroft had been bullied, stiff upper lip and damnable pride would prevent him saying anything, and if he hadn’t been, which Greg suspected as to his peers, even then, Mycroft would have been a very Dominant Alpha from a good family with a politician’s silver tongue, My was the type to never break the unwritten code of silence between public school boys.

Sherlock on the other hand was quick witted, abrasive and could not keep his mouth shut. Mycroft would have already graduated for most of Sherlock’s schooling so he wouldn’t have had any protection provided by his older Dominant brother, nor any restraining control. Greg had no doubt Sherlock would have been the target of bullies. How much he’d cared was possibly up for debate, Greg was willing to bet on significantly more than Sherlock ever showed, but either way, he would know, and more importantly, he would talk. Forewarned was forearmed.

He needed to start thinking of baby names. Here he was planning the kid’s schooling and after school activities, and he didn’t even have a name yet. Mycroft was, Greg did a quick mental tally, around four months along meaning he’d be leaving in a couple of months for his conference thingy Anthea had arranged to cover his absence from the office while he was noticeably pregnant. The workload had already ramped up in preparation, and Mycroft was spending longer hours at the office, including substantial portions of the weekend in his study working from home. Their nightly Sessions were starting later and later, Greg usually catching a nap in front of the TV until Mycroft was done and came to fetch him. Greg worried about the stress on the baby, but what could he do? He certainly couldn’t offer to help.

At least Mycroft was still there when Greg woke up, curled subconsciously to protect his abdomen. Greg didn’t mind that Mycroft was always curled away from him because he doubted Mycroft had much of a choice. _He_ was always plastered to Mycroft’s back, one arm protectively curled over Mycroft’s chest and nose buried in his neck. Thank God he hadn’t drooled on Mycroft yet in his sleep.

The wake up alarm was going off earlier and earlier as well. Greg had fit a jog in before getting to the Yard at 7:30 that morning. He’d already decided that if Mycroft snuck it any earlier they were going to have words. Mycroft needed the rest. Their baby needed the rest.

“Day dreaming, Lestrade? How horribly unproductive. No wonder the Yard fails to solve so many crimes a year if its inspectors are reduced to adolescent wanderings.” Sherlock Holmes, leading contender in the Git of the Year awards, threw himself into the empty chair opposite Greg.

“Sherlock! How are-” Greg started, falling back on no insincere pleasantries as he was startled out of his thoughts.

“What load of trivial drivel is your mind too idiotic to sort through? You must have something. The collective intelligence of your team couldn’t fill a teaspoon.” Sherlock’s voice was acerbic and it wouldn’t have taken much imagination to visualise the icicles appearing on every surface.

It was one of _those_ days. There hadn’t been any of _those_ days since the introduction of one Doctor John Watson into the mix, but two years of relative Sherlock bliss couldn’t wipe them from Greg’s mind.

He wordlessly handed over the file. Sherlock flipped it open then shut.

“Pathetic.” Sherlock leapt to his feet and stormed out of the room, taking the file with him.

“He’s a little tense.” John’s voice came apologetically from the doorway as he slid through in Sherlock’s wake.

Greg raised a sarcastic eyebrow. John let out a bark of strained laughter and collapsed into the chair.

“Okay, maybe more than a little.” His fingers drummed restlessly on his thigh.

“Did something go wrong during...?” Greg tentatively asked.

“Huh? Oh, what, no. No, nothing unusual or unexpected.” John’s fingers tapped with increasing agitation. In the distance Sherlock could be heard verbally eviscerating whichever poor Yard official he’d selected as prey.

“It’s just he might be,” John burst out suddenly. “There’s always the possibility that he’s...”

“Well that’s good yeah?” Greg prompted calmly.

“Yes, no, I don’t... _I_ want a child, but... He’s so stressed about it, you know, with the Work and everything. It’d be so limiting for him.”

John’s leg was jiggling in counter time to his fingers and his eyes were pinned to the glass wall.

“When will you be able to tell for sure?” Greg kept his voice steady. The younger Alpha was clearly not handling the uncertainty any better than his Omega.

“Sometimes it’s possible to tell within five days, but it can take up to ten for the hormone level to build sufficiently to register. After that, a negative result is a negative result.” The other leg started vibrating as well.

“And so far?” Greg knew the answer, it was obvious from their conversation, but he asked anyway.

John shrugged and vibrated harder.

“John,” Greg said gently. Slowly the doctor turned to face him. “Everything’ll be fine. You’re both young still. You’ve got time.”

John bit his lip. “But what if he-”

A crying constable fled past Greg’s door.

“Shit, I have to go.” John jumped to his feet and rushed out to restrain his temperamental Sub without finishing his sentence.

 Greg sighed and leant back in his chair. He just bet he knew what John had been going to say, and couldn’t stop wondering how much better Sherlock and John would be handling the waiting period if they’d just talk and realise they both wanted the same thing, but there were obviously other issues involved else John would have brought it up with Sherlock by now, knowing better than to rely on Sherlock to understand emotional cues, he usually didn’t, so all Greg could do was stand back and hope they sorted it out. It wasn’t his place to interfere in other people’s relationships, though this was rapidly becoming a case where he’d make an exception.

It was a sentiment he’d revisit with gritted teeth two days later in the dismal Sunday pre-dawn as Sherlock ripped through his team making three different PC’s and Sally cry while John stood back against the wall looking utterly disheartened.

He wanted to blurt it out then and there, force them to deal with one another rather than taking out on innocent third parties. Instead he dragged Sally away from Sherlock and caught her flying wrists before she came anywhere close to connecting with him, that John would get involved in (probably forcefully), and reflected that it really was the worst week for Sally and Anderson to be on the outs leaving Sally on little to no sleep and overly emotional following a heated confrontation in the bullpen the day before.

Which Sherlock would have realised in seconds.

He didn’t know what Sherlock had said, but he didn’t doubt Sally had tried to verbally strike back. Given Sherlock had gone onto reduce her to tears, whatever she’d said had obviously struck home.

“Donovan, go secure the perimeter.” He pushed her out of the room and away from Sherlock. “You,” he rounded on the Omega, “get the hell off my crime scene.”

Sherlock defiantly flipped his curls and sneered. “You need me.”

“Yes, I do.” Greg barked back, furious because he really did need Sherlock on this one, “but I can’t work with you like this so Get. Off. My. Crime. Scene!”

“Nonsense-”

“NOW!” Greg roared.

It was almost worth the look of shock on Sherlock’s face, would have been if Greg hadn’t seen the hurt before Sherlock covered it up with a sneer and stormed out of the room.

“Fair enough, Greg.” John pushed off the wall. His movements were slightly robotic and his gaze vacant. Greg wondered where in his mind John Watson had locked himself away and what demons he was fighting.

“John...” Greg watched him drift out of the door and sighed.

He could understand that Sherlock was nervous and lashing out, but it was impossible to work with him if he was going to be like that.

There would be repercussions from kicking Sherlock out, but what else could he do? He hated doing it, but even knowing Sherlock’s antagonistic behaviour was a plea for understanding he’d never accept, Greg had no choice. He resigned himself to stony silences and caterwauling violins whenever he went around to Baker Street for the foreseeable duration.

When it came down to it, Sherlock was a child with no emotional maturity. He’d dared to bring his walls down, to show Greg how much he did actually value him, and then been stung. Somehow Greg would have to make it up to him, reassure that his reaction was everything to do with the Work, and Greg’s job, and keeping Sherlock from being permanently kicked off, and nothing else. Normally he’d leave this to John, but something was going on there and from the looks of things he couldn’t rely on that happening this time.

The door shut with a firm thud just short of slamming as Greg slouched back into the house wearing his mood as a shroud.

“Welcome home.” Mycroft lounged sardonically against the door to his study.

“What are you doing home?” Greg growled flustered.

He hadn’t expected Mycroft and being caught indulging in a childish temper tantrum stung his pride and heightened his annoyance. The anger lay coiled in his chest just waiting for something to strike out at and Mycroft, leaning like an upper class tosser against the door, was a target waiting to happen. Greg stormed past him to the kitchen.

“I was released from the office early.” Mycroft blithely answered his question, following carelessly behind him.

‘Released from the office’ was one of Mycroft’s euphemisms for ‘I was kicked out’.

“Really?” Greg snarled as he yanked the fridge door open.

“I have been working more hours than is advisable in my condition. Apparently my assistant will now be enforcing normal office hours and restricting weekend work.”

Greg slammed the fridge door shut as best he could, being a fridge door.

Of course Mycroft was home because She had told him to be. He was Mycroft’s Alpha and if he’d said any of the things he’d been wanting to say, put his foot down about Mycroft’s hours and demanded he be home to relax and sleep, Mycroft would have walled him out with stony silence and done it anyway, but Her, She says go home and here Mycroft was before Greg was even home and Greg couldn’t even have a fucking beer while he de-stressed because Mycroft had raised an eyebrow and remained pointedly silent when Greg had gone to put a six-pack in the fridge so Greg had poured it down the sink feeling irrationally guilty.

Mycroft raised the same eyebrow and _looked_ at Greg.

“What?” Greg snapped. “Something you want to say?”

“Would you like to tell me about your day, Gregory?” Mycroft asked mildly.

“Tell you about my day? Sure, why not, it was brilliant. Great day. Absolutely brilliant. Had a screaming match with your brother because he was being an arrogant arse and kicked him off a crime scene I needed him on. So because he wasn’t there I don’t doubt we’ve missed fifty million ‘obvious’ clues and we’ll lose this one because my forensic guys have nothing, nada, zip, though it might help if my crime scene analyst had more of his mind focused on his job and less on his dick.”

“Things not going well between Anderson and Sergeant Donovan then?”

Greg let out a strangled laugh.

“Not going well? Oh let’s think about this. Anderson still refuses to admit he’s gay even three years later, point blank won’t consider leaving his Sub, and in an idiotic and misguided attempt to prove he isn’t gay and so is sleeping with Sally for God knows what reason, he decided to fuck the new PC who hadn’t been there long enough to know better and in her 100% Submissive way fawned over him the day after in front of Sally. The resulting explosion ended with tears, flying stationary, and me sending them both home early, so I think it’s going bloody swimmingly, don’t you?”

Mycroft said nothing, letting Greg’s anger flow past him. Unfortunately the control only aggravated Greg who wanted a response, wanted Mycroft to strike back so he could be justified at lashing out at someone.

“And then your bloody brother decided to tear Sally apart over _my_ dead body just when she can’t take anymore shit, and John’s got his head so far up his own bloody arse he’s doing nothing to restrain Sherlock who is cutting through my officers like butter a WEEK after I get off suspension and I just fucking bet there’ll be complaints now and I’ll be pulled in to Packenham’s poxy office and put on report, again, one week, one fucking week after I’m allowed to go back to doing my job!

“And then I get home, and I can’t even have a fucking beer!” Greg roared, sweeping his arm across the table and sending the sale and pepper flying violently into the wall.

“Gregory, **kneel**.” Mycroft barked, sending Greg crashing to his knees.

Greg didn’t try to stand, collapsing forward onto his hands, chest heaving with emotion. It was unfair, so totally bloody unfair. Life had been good and now things were going to shit again because Sherlock and John couldn’t hold a goddam conversation and he ranked lower on Mycroft’s list of people to listen to than his Omega’s bloody PA.

His elbows collapsed and he curled with his arms tugged into his chest.

Why? All he’d wanted was to catch a killer and come home to his love and let the day go away, but one Holmes had screwed up the first part of that and the other the latter. He’d have been fine if he could have just come home, grabbed his beer and brooded in front of the TV, but no, of course he couldn’t do that because his love’s PA had decided it was best for _Greg’s_ Mate and _Greg’s_ baby if Mycroft got more sleep and sent him home early.

Mycroft moved past him and vague sounds of pots and pans clattered through the kitchen.

Of course Mycroft hadn’t reacted, hadn’t given Greg the space or fight he needed, just stood there like an upper class ponce in his ridiculous three piece suit and silk ties and Egyptian cotton custom made shirts and wanted to _Talk_ about it. Where Greg was from Alpha’s didn’t _talk_.

The fridge opened and shut behind Greg followed by the brisk slicing of one of the wickedly sharp kitchen knives through vegetables. Reluctantly Greg pushed upright and went to stand.

“ **Stay**.”

Greg’s knees locked, refusing to let him rise, leaving him stuck on the tiles in the middle of the kitchen.

Kneeling like a disobedient Submissive chit.

Punishment.

The Alpha in Greg gritted his teeth as his blood began to boil. He was not some weak willed Sub who craved a Dom’s control over every aspect of his life, needed it to function properly. Greg didn’t even need a Dom. He’d survived on his own for years. He was here with Mycroft because he wanted to be and loved him.

The sounds behind him had moved to the stove. The fizz of oil as Mycroft heated the pan and scent of sautéed onions filled the kitchen.

Punishment.

Punishment because Greg had struck out physically, out of control verbally and emotionally. There was nothing stopping Greg lifting his head to look around, but he let it hang. There was no need to look over at the wall to know the reproaching shards of glass mixed with peppercorns and salt flakes were still there.

Punishment because Greg had been ticked off, legitimately angry at Sherlock, Sherlock who was going to get him into trouble at work while he was still on probation, who was going to destroy all the ground Greg had managed to reclaim with friends and colleagues at work. He was accepted again and not grudgingly or with sideways glances because he was That DI, the One who worked with the Freak. He was human again, a person to them once more, and Sherlock was taking that away before Greg had even had a chance to get used to it.

The stove was clicked off and the soft scrape of utensils as Mycroft plated up their dinner. Long legs passed Greg’s field of vision, but there was no order to stand or join him as Mycroft settled at the table.

Sherlock’s fault, all Sherlock’s fucking fault because he wouldn’t have a simple conversation with John, let him know they were both in the same place, and as a result Greg was here kneeling on his kitchen floor as Mycroft ate dinner and ignored him less than an arm’s length away.

He’d risked his relationship for Sherlock, had risked losing his Omega and his child for him. Mycroft wasn’t Bonded to Greg, he could leave him without a second thought and be none the worse for it while Greg lived with the knowledge of what he’d lost. Yes, Sherlock had stuck his neck out too, but Greg had fixed that as best he could and this was how Sherlock repaid him, by driving Mycroft away from him?

“ **Eat**.”

Greg’s mouth obediently fell open as Mycroft finger fed him a carrot.

He’d made enough allowances for Sherlock over the years, excused his behaviour as an addict because his genius was genuinely never affected, merely the transport, too frail to support the flame that burnt inside. He’d forgiven him for using Greg as his verbal punching bag whenever he felt like it, ignored his unprofessional behaviour and childish outbursts because he’d always been fond of him, always cared that little bit too much about the lanky kid he’d almost arrested for solicitation before he’d turned around in Greg’s passenger seat and informed _Greg_ that he was a policeman in the Serious Crimes Unit helping out Vice on an undercover run on the hot spots and that he, Sherlock, knew who Greg’s murderer was for the Sampson case and Greg’s DI had it totally wrong.

Greg accepted another mouthful.

Why should he have to clean up Sherlock’s messes all the time? He was 32, almost as old as Greg had been when he’d almost arrested him the first time. The fact that Sherlock had the emotional age of a child was his problem, not Greg’s.

Where in all this was John, leaning casually against the wall and letting Sherlock run wild in a way he hadn’t even before they were together. John was the responsible one, John was supposed to show some bloody maturity. How the fuck could he justify his behaviour, ignoring Sherlock while the Sub vibrated out of his skin with anxiety?

Mycroft’s fingers pushed another bite of food between yielding lips and Greg was softly ordered to chew, fingers lingering comfortingly on his lips just a second longer than necessary.

Sherlock was in a state and John was just letting it continue. It made Greg so angry on so many levels that they couldn’t sort their issues, or at least keep them inside the house. Their relationship had recently been shaken, surely they should be making more of an effort to talk and connect not less? (Bite). What on Earth was going on?

A glass of water was pressed against his lips and Greg obediently tilted his head back and sipped on command. The water was grounding, bringing him back to the taste of lemongrass in his mouth from the food and the dry nature of his throat. The glass stayed in place and he took a longer swallow.

The cold from the tiles had seeped into his knees, making him feel stiff and achy, muscles cramped from kneeling for however long. He took another long drink to finish the glass and felt himself pulled forward until his forehead rested against Mycroft’s thigh. The anger had drained out of him as he knelt, leaving him feeling hollow and craving attention.

“Now,” Mycroft asked calmly, “what are you actually angry about?”

Tears pricked the corners of Greg’s eyes.

“I hurt him,” He mumbled into Mycroft’s thigh, the burn growing behind his eyelids. “I _hurt_ him.”

Fingers smoothed over his hair and he felt one of the building tears break free and soak into the material below.

“I didn’t want to... I’m not meant to...” He lifted his head beseechingly. “Why did he make me hurt him, My?”

A thumb caught and wiped away a tear that trickled down Greg’s cheek, pent up anger giving way and leaching out once and for all.

He hadn’t wanted to yell at Sherlock and it hurt him to see the troubled youngster in so much avoidable pain. It could be so easily solved, but not by Greg. He was helpless before the onslaught and was so angry that Sherlock had forced him to add to it, to cause him more pain and make Greg to take away one of the few precious distractions from the anguish Sherlock was in.

“I didn’t want to hurt him.” Greg whispered again, lowering his forehead back onto Mycroft’s thigh, soaking up the comfort freely given.

“I know.” Mycroft trailed his fingers down the nape of Greg’s neck, soothing as he went.

“Please?” Greg’s voice cracked as he looked up. _Please take me upstairs, take me to bed, and make me feel loved._

The hand gently pulled Greg to his feet. “Come with me.”


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Evening all, 
> 
> Definite warnings for this chapter. This is NOT good BDSM practice, and in the real world Mycroft would be sprouting total and utter BULLSHIT. Even in this au world it's not good logic. Do NOT undertake any kind of relationship like this (or for that matter any of this story).
> 
> Warnings: Sex, general BDSM, generally incorrect BDSM

Greg knelt on the rich chestnut carpet and wondered exactly how he got there.

Well, no, wondered was too strong a word. The tiniest part of his brain way down deep at the back that wasn’t already floating in Subspace ruminated; the rest was a blissful haze in a problem free world.

It certainly wasn’t how he’d anticipated ending up that evening, though given his sex life had gone from non-existent to every single night it was somewhat inevitable. He’d thought he’d come back, attempt to cook Mycroft an apology dinner and then they could spend the evening talking, laughing, maybe some _Yes, Minister_ like the friends they were still struggling to be. He’d needed it.

The terror he’d felt when he’d woken up in the morning, once  the anger, guilt and hurt had receded enough for him to think clearly and realised how close he’d come to hurting his Omega, his pregnant Omega, was indescribable. Oh, there had never been any actual danger of him attacking Mycroft physically, or really even hurting him physically at all, but his emotions had been so out of control they’d overridden all his protective instincts.

He hadn’t cared that Mycroft might be hurt, and what if Greg had kept going, kept throwing things as he railed? He wouldn’t have aimed at Mycroft, but Greg would also have to be the first to admit that he wasn’t the world’s best shot and sooner or later, intention or not, he was more than likely to have hit My.

The whole incident brought home how hormones, instincts and pheromones were at the end of the day just hormones, instincts and pheromones, and outside of Estrus they were easily overpowered by emotions and personality. Greg had known this; he’d worked domestic violence cases where an Alpha had whaled on their pregnant Omega. He’d seen bodies with bruise patterns far beyond consensual play, but he’d always thought those Alphas had something wrong in the head, some switch or neuron not quite firing correctly. It had been easy to believe, easy to slip into the thought pattern that because the only cases of it he ever saw, reported or otherwise, were from the working classes and not uncommonly associated with drugs or alcohol use by one or both parties, that it was a medical problem, a drugs problem, a junkie from a council estate problem.

He should have known better. He’d grown up on a council estate, it wasn’t like he didn’t _know_ what it was like, the good and the bad, but it had been so easy to fall into that blinkered prejudiced way of thinking that he didn’t even realise he had.

It was a long way from possibly accidently harming his Omega as collateral damage to deliberate harm and abuse, but still... but still... The lack of control scared him.

He hadn’t even been angry with Mycroft, not really. In another frame of mind Mycroft’s presence in the house would have been a good thing. Slightly painful because Mycroft’s presence at home was Anthea related, but when it came to the office Greg readily admitted that Anthea was Queen and even Mycroft Holmes danced to her tune.

She’d smiled at him once when he’d asked her what she did and enigmatically replied “Behind every great statesman is a woman and her Blackberry.” Greg hadn’t asked again.

So all in all, Anthea dictating Mycroft’s hours – not that unusual. She didn’t counter Mycroft’s inclinations often, but there was certainly precedent.

What hurt was that Mycroft would do it for Her, but not Greg. Hurt wasn’t anger, though already stressed, aggravated, annoyed, _angry_ , it had certainly added fuel to the fire.

Mycroft had stopped him. Greg didn’t appreciate being ordered to kneel, but he had to admit that it had forced him to stay still and deal rather than continue to rant and rave. His usual de-stressing methods would have allowed him to push it all to one side and ignore it, but he wouldn’t have dealt with it. Just dumped it. Not that it had been his choice in the end what he would do.

What if Mycroft had struck back, provided Greg with the fight he wanted?

“Stop thinking.” Mycroft had grumbled into his pillow. “I assure you, you’re overreacting.”

Mycroft, in his own way, had chosen to give Greg space to think when civil conversation had failed, but even if he hadn’t and had elected to bite back, Greg would never have taken it too far, and really, he _was_ massively overreacting. At the end of the day, really, it was just the shock factor.

He’d kissed Mycroft’s ear in apology for disturbing him and got up to let the pounding pavement sooth away any remaining thoughts of Armageddon. Being told to stop thinking by a Holmes made him wander whether or not hell had frozen over.

Mycroft had still been in bed asleep when Greg had returned and showered. The dark circles under his eyes contrasted with his pale skin, though they were rarely noticeable when he was awake, a fact Greg ascribed to the sheer intensity of Mycroft’s gaze. Greg had left him there, dropping a small kiss to an uncovered shoulder, torn between hoping Mycroft overslept and got the rest he, they, needed and the fact that the country would probably grind to a halt were Mycroft Holmes late to work.

Or maybe not. After all, She was there.

The rest of the day had been fairly unimpressive. Sally and Anderson had avoided each other like the plague, Sally and PC Weatherly had avoided each other like the plague, and everyone avoided Greg, who apparently had earned quite a bit of fear credit among the rank and file for daring to kick Sherlock Holmes off a crime scene after fighting with him in front of his Dom (John had his own high level of fear/respect around the Yard, mainly because the last few times he’d been in the building he’d been forced to remind them what lay behind the cuddly exterior).

Greg just accepted the reprieve and politely failed to notice the latest pool: How long until Dr Watson takes DI Lestrade apart for yelling at the Freak?

Nothing about his day had prepared him to end up here.

The exacting nature of the marks left across his skin last time should really have clued him into the possibility that one of the things Mycroft was especially fond of was bondage. At the first instance his blood had all been in his cock, but he’d had three weeks since then and the marks certainly hadn’t faded overnight. True, other than on that occasion, restraints had been limited (handcuffs, silk scarves, self-control), but nonetheless the evidence had been there.

If he were still capable of thought he’d have been kicking himself for missing it. He hated whenever he proved Sherlock correct and acted like a blind idiot.

The evening had started as planned. Mycroft was home on time, Greg had been home early and didn’t burn dinner, Mycroft had smiled as he asked about Greg’s day, Greg had rolled his eyes and replied that it had been better than the day before, thanks so much for asking.

They’d eaten dinner, Greg had had wine, they’d talked: latest release movies, new economic theory, the football, the financial markets, the Olympics, the current political climate. Then Greg had managed to fluster Mycroft over a policy point, a rare occurrence marked by a slight furrow between the eyes and a minute hitch to his reply, always to be treasured, and he’d looked at Mycroft and felt all his love for the totally unique genius bubble up in his chest and positively burn his heart. Greg had known it had shown on his face, a blind deaf idiot probably could have read it off his face, but he just felt so much.

Lips had met Greg’s in a harsh mashing of skin, teeth and tongue. Greg came back to himself, awareness finally released from the dedicated plunder of his mouth and the sheer wonder that now he _could_ kiss Mycroft whenever these feelings arose, to realise Mycroft had guided them halfway up the staircase towards their rooms. Greg had let him steer them, concentrating instead on buttons and ties and zips so there was a steady trail of clothing marking their path.

“So much time tonight.” Mycroft’s panted litany was still seared across Greg’s brain, words drifting calmly around him in Subspace. “Nice and early, so I’ll take you down slowly, way down, further than I’ve taken you before.”

Master’s hand drifted along the line of Greg’s shoulder, keeping in constant contact so Greg never had to wonder where he was. There could be no fear of the unknown with that trickling touch, always present always somewhere, proof that Master was still there and that Greg wasn’t alone.

The first thing Mycroft had done upon entering the room was break free of Greg’s embrace. Greg had tried to kiss him again, but took the silent hand pressing against his chest as an order to stay still while thoughts flicked and whirred on Mycroft’s face. Greg could see the moments when various ideas slotted together and the calm satisfaction when the session plan fell into place in Mycroft’s head.

“Finish undressing.” He’d instructed.

A rush of longing had flavoured Greg’s removal of his belt, trousers and pants. The passionate climb up the stairs hadn’t been long enough for Greg to divest Mycroft of all his clothing, so the Dom was still clad in trousers and his shirt, though his shirt was at least mostly undone.

The fingers threaded through his hair and Greg leant into the touch as best as he could. The caress ended as Greg’s hair was pulled backwards. He hovered there waiting for the next move.

As per developing tradition Mycroft had removed the items he was intending to use and displayed them, this time on the dressing table. The flogger Greg was already intimately acquainted with, as he was the silk scarf and the riding crop, but the yards and yards of scarlet rope were new. Last time Mycroft had bound him with rope rather than handcuffs there had been nowhere near as much of it. Greg had suspected there was more up there than he could see as it wouldn’t take Mycroft that long to assemble the collection on display. The unknown element added an extra thrill and had caused him to shiver.

From the moist heat hovering just off his shoulder, Master was leaning over, lips just separated from Greg’s skin. Greg longed to lean into the body that must be in front of him and close the precarious gap, burying his Master’s face in the crook of his neck, but the choice to move was well out of his hands. With the slowest and most delicate of caresses, lips made contact and Greg gasped.

“Where to start?” Mycroft’s gaze had been evaluating as he weighed each item in his hand.

“Wherever you wish, Master.” The title had rolled off Greg’s tongue naturally without a second thought, drawn out by the heavy atmosphere growing between them by the second.

“So many wishes.”

“We have years.”

“Yes.” The stillness settling over Mycroft’s body had suggested he hadn’t thought of it like that before. “Yes, I suppose we do.”

The position Greg was required to hold in order to kiss Mycroft added to the delicious strain settling low into his muscles. It was startling gentle, even loving if Greg dared describe it that way, and fuelled the slow burn in his groin, so different from the heat of exertion in his other muscles. It felt lazy, the arousal, languid and slippery like silk instead of the hard driving force that had sent them careening up the stairs in the first place, a change marked by the soft nibbles and long caresses bestowed on Greg’s lips.

“Stand with your hands behind your back. Hold your forearms.” Mycroft had instructed.

Greg’s obedience was instant and he had felt Mycroft bind his wrists together behind his back. The rope then passed around his torso a scant number of inches below his nipples, which had already peaked in anticipation. The rope reversed direction behind his back and made a second pass just above the previous line, almost touching the two eager nubs of flesh. Greg had been forced to employ considerable restraint to stop himself pressing into Mycroft’s hand as it had brushed by.

His nipples ached now with far more than anticipation. Still kissing Greg, Master’s hand drifted down his front over the ropes and pulled gently on the chain hanging freely from his chest. Attached to his nipples by two clamps, the jolt of pain caused Greg to gasp and kicked the slow moving arousal drifting through his body up a notch.

The double wrap of his chest had been repeated just above his nipples as well. An intricate series of loops followed as Mycroft wove the rope around him before gently tilting Greg’s chin up and out of the way to pull the rope underneath and over Greg’s shoulder.

The binding was nowhere near complete, but already Greg could feel the soft, but persistent bite of the rope into his skin. Each pass of the cord restricted not only his torso, but also the movement of his lower arms, which were anchored at the bottom of the wraps. An experimental arm pull had demonstrated the lack of give, and Greg had felt himself sink into it with a relieved sigh. There would be no doing anything until Mycroft released the binding.

The chain still swung with the residue of Master’s pull, creating little sparks that fed the rearing fire.

“Have you had enough rope time, my dear? Ready to liven it up?” Master’s low smooth tones flowed through Greg’s ear.

“Yes, Master.”

The rope had been passed under the growing entanglement running up Greg’s back one last time and then split, at which point Greg had become aware the ‘rope’ holding him was actually a doubled over length. The individual ropes ran left and right between Greg’s torso and arms.

“Are you going to squirm, Gregory?” Mycroft’s voice had huffed gently into his ear.

“No, Master.” Greg had replied, resolving not to do so.

“Very well.”

The rope had passed over the lower of the chest wraps and returned back down, avoiding the upper wrap on both sides, before being crossed over Greg’s back. With each pass he’d been able to feel it binding him more completely, removing the illusion of control his rationale mind tried to cling to, allowing him to relax, relax, relax under the weight of the constricting loops.

Greg’s neck was once again pulled uncomfortably backward, except this time an object was offered up to him instead of a kiss. Feeling the press of rubber and leather against his lips, Greg obediently opened to accept the ball gag.

A second length of rope had been collected from the dresser and placed on the floor closer to Greg. Then Mycroft had stood in front of him and gracefully aided Greg to his knees and then belly. The fingers run along his back hadn’t been entirely sensual, Greg had felt them probing various connections and sections of the bindings for give, and testing the level of restriction of blood flow, but they’d left soothing tingles and loosened muscles in their wake.

The process had been repeated with the second rope around his legs and ankles, tying them into a crossed position as Greg lost more and more coherence. The loose ends had been passed under the lines on his back, pulling his feet towards his head. The leftover rope had been intricately twined and lay heavily along Greg’s back. The final act had been the wrapping of the silk scarf over Greg’s eyes, plunging him into darkness.

The ball gag completed the set of restrains in an electric fashion. Mycroft had left him bound and blindfolded to enjoy the sensations and fall gradually deep into Subspace at his own pace, truly sending him down more than Greg thought he could go, but this... Something about being bound, blind folded and gagged without a vestige of options left to him was so liberating. Every day stresses had already fallen away, banished by the bite of hemp rope and lack of sight, but with the addition of the gag, Greg felt some knot of tension deep inside that he’d never been aware of ease.

The tie holding his feet to his hands was released and Master’s hands smoothed along the muscles, digging in to relieve the built up strain as he manoeuvred Greg into another position.

The point at which Mycroft had become Master even inside Greg’s head was uncertain, but it was probably around the point Master’s long dextrous fingers had coaxed his nipples into even harder nubs and attached the clamps and chain. The arch in Greg’s back had barely been sufficient to hold his chest off the floor and keep the chain free, but he’d managed despite the muscle ache as rolling forward had caught the chain under his body and pulled sharply downward on the metal links. Every time his muscles had given in he came forward into this sharper embrace and endured it until he was capable of pulling back up.

The new position curled him the other way, legs crossed in front and the chest harness connected to his ankles, keeping him hunched over. Not only did it allow the chain to swing at will, tugging again and again on the nipple clamps, but it also gave some space for his erection.

Soft suede whispered over his back as Master’s grounding fingers disappeared. It was the first time since Greg had been blindfolded that the connection had been removed. It was disorientating and without his sight to provide context Greg felt himself physically falling as the world spun, unable to tell up from down.

The sharp sting as the flogger impacted against his back orientated him to Master’s location and returned the ground to him. The ball gag didn’t prevent all sound, and Greg moaned around the rubber.

The flogger came down again and again, the soft tails swishing through the air, and Greg automatically attempted to arch back into the stroke, but the ropes held him down, preventing the move. The denial forced a whimper out and around the gag, and earned another stroke.

Each tail left a blazing line on Greg’s skin. Rationally he knew the strokes weren’t hard, that Master had given him harder before, but the combined muscle strain and focus on each point of impact as his link to his Dom, and through him the world at large, made them burn.

The flogger descended again and again. At one point the lag between strokes was long enough Greg began to fret as the world turned, but a sharp stroke, harder than its predecessors, put his senses to rights. After that the strokes fell regularly, with barely a break in the pattern until Greg’s whole back was gloriously aflame.

The gentle swish of the flogger being placed on the luxurious carpet drew a plaintive whimper around the gag and set Greg squirming, rolling his weight side to side in agitation.

“Hush, Gregory.” Fingers landed on his head and the distant sounds of Master kneeling before him penetrated his haze.

The link between his ankles and chest was broken and he was rearranged in a conventional upright kneeling position. The blindfold lifted and Greg blinked several times in rapid succession as his eyes adjusted.

Master stood in front of him, shirt undone, belt missing and barefoot, exactly as Greg had last seen him. The pad of Master’s thumb collected and wiped away the thin line of drool seeping around one side of the gag.

“So beautiful.” One blunt nail curved along Greg’s jawbone. “I wish I could record you like this, send you under bound in ropes and photograph you in all different poses. I’d have to get new supplies for you. You would absolutely glow in navy with your hair.”

Greg gazed up at his Dom with dewy eyes, willing him to read the willingness on Greg’s behalf.

The fingers pistol gripped his jaw and tilted his head up and back. Greg let his eyes fall closed as Master’s gaze roamed greedily over his body.

“Not as beautiful as you.” Greg wanted to say, knowing instinctually that that was the thought passing through his Dom’s mind.

With a flick of the wrist the ball gag was released and Greg gently brought forward to nestle against Master’s leg as the button and fly were undone. Greg knew more drool was leaking out the sides of his mouth, but it wasn’t even a consideration as Mycroft’s cock came into view.

Sucking Mycroft’s cock wasn’t a new experience, nor was sucking it with his hands behind his back, but for some reason, maybe the lead up, this felt different, more raw. He was stripped bare in a way that had nothing to do with being nude and everything to do with being naked.

Master’s breath hitched and his fingers fluttered against Greg’s shoulder. The sweat rolling down his back stung as it crossed one of the blazing lines.

A sob broke free as Greg’s tongue wrapped around the tip and then took him down his throat in a single swallow. Greg intensified his efforts, bringing forth more broken cries and aborted whimpers. He wasn’t the only one stripped naked tonight.

The hot flood of semen down Greg’s throat was heralded by a strangled cry and tightening of the grip on his shoulders. He swallowed it down regretfully. It meant this tenuous state of affairs was almost over. Slowly he cleaned his Dom’s cock and was supported over to the bed. Once there Greg expected the ropes to be released, but instead he was laid on his back, head supported by the unnecessary number of pillows, and his own cock swallowed in a single unexpected move.

Abs rippling with the strain, Greg arched off the bed and let out a desperate gasp for air. He vaguely remembered Mycroft giving him a blow jog during Heat, but the Omega hadn’t even come close since then. It took all his remaining neurons not to thrust up into the hot wet mouth as he was taken apart physically as easily as Master had taken him apart mentally earlier.

“M...M...” Greg stuttered in warning, feeling the sharp rush as every last iota of languid arousal turned savage and raced through his body, settling in his cock and balls, full to overflowing.

His warning was just in time, but rather than pull away, Mycroft left his mouth where it was and suckled Greg through the throes of his orgasm, leaving him boneless on the bed.

Greg half expected the deep calm of Subspace to fall away as Mycroft loosened the ropes and slowly unwound the restraints from Greg’s body, but there was no rapid hitch in his slow rise from wherever he’d gone inside his own head. Instead he felt akin to a cat, drunk on sunlight and catnip, stealing all the physical and emotional warmth from Mycroft’s dedicated after care he could.

The emerald silk of the dressing gown Mycroft had pulled on over his clothing, yet another one Greg hadn’t seen before, was a cooling slither along Greg’s body as the rope fell away and Mycroft gently manipulated each limb, expertly checking for soreness or any soft tissue damage.

“Might have to take up yoga.” Greg slurred, still too deep and too relaxed to care how he sounded as he watched the graceful flow of verdant sleeves.

“Increased flexibility would allow me to safely bind you in some of the more advanced positions.” Mycroft absently commented as he rotated Greg’s arm, checking the shoulder joint.

“Mmm. You’d like that. You like this.” Greg’s voice caught on the final ssss and he hissed as Mycroft removed first one and then the other clamp and blood rushed painfully back into the area.

“Kinbaku originates in an ancient art of rope binding for the purposes of torture, but was resurrected in the 1900’s with a more sensual intent. It requires significantly more concentration and skill than handcuffing you to the bed.” Having covered Greg’s nipples with salve, Mycroft replaced the jar of moisturiser in the drawer.

Greg smiled fondly. Trust Mycroft to get off on obscure bondage styles that required intellectual effort.

“Never heard of it.”

“In the West it is more commonly known as Shibari.” The Japanese sounds flowed off Mycroft’s tongue with ease. “It doesn’t surprise me you are unfamiliar with it, Gregory. Your situation has encouraged only the most vanilla of play in you. It is not that uncommon, though there are few who are acknowledged as Grandmasters.”

“You one of them?” Greg teased lazily.

He loved these moments when he was emerging from Subspace and Mycroft took care of him. At these times the Dom seemed so relaxed, so accessible, and it gave Greg hope that one day they wouldn’t need the session and the sex for Mycroft to drop his masks around Greg.

“No,” Mycroft chuckled and met Greg’s smile with a tiny, but genuine one of his own. “No, Gregory, I am afraid you’re stuck with an amateur.”

Greg rolled his eyes and settled back against the pillows supporting him as the final binding unwound. The ropes slithered free and Mycroft stood to coil it.

“My, why don’t you use a safeword?” Greg asked softly.

He wanted to know. The past month had shown him that his initial impression, that Mycroft refused to use one because he wanted to do whatever he wanted to Greg with no limits, was wrong.

Mycroft’s movements slowed. Eventually he sighed.

“Normally I do.” He admitted.

The remaining vestiges of Subspace left Greg relaxed and disconnected, but not so much the confusion he felt wasn’t written all over his face.

“If I were to walk out on the street and select any random Submissive for a session I would use a safeword.” Mycroft elaborated, still methodically coiling the scarlet expanse, the ease of the session flowing out of his body as his own movements became more structured and deliberate at Greg’s question.

“So why-” Greg began.

“What is the purpose of a safeword, Gregory?” Mycroft’s interruption was soft, but firm.

“To stop things if one party doesn’t want to keep going?”

It shouldn’t have been a question. Every member of society knew what a safeword was for and had one. Everyone except romantic fools who believed their love was such they didn’t need one, or danger junkies who got off on the lack, that was. Greg wasn’t comfortable working out which category he fell into.

“Not quite.” The first length of rope was placed on the table and Mycroft began to coil the second. “A safeword is for when a Submissive _needs_ to stop a session because his or her Dominant has failed to do so.”

Greg frowned and turned on his side as Mycroft kept talking.

“There is an infantile need rampant among the lesser Dominants of society to prove their dominance with posturing and unnecessary aggression in a misguided attempt to claim status.”

Despite the serious nature of Mycroft’s words, Greg couldn’t help the pale amusement that flowed through him at the characteristic Holmesian arrogance. Of course Mycroft would consider the everyday struggles of ordinary Doms a waste of time.

“In particular this manifests in carelessly extreme play and creates a macho need to mark a Submissive beyond society’s bounds – so called Subscars.”Mycroft sniffed disdainfully. “No proficient Dominant should be damaging a Submissive in such a way.”

“Not into scarification then?” Greg was relieved. He had never ventured close himself and wasn’t sure whether he would like it. If Mycroft didn’t believe in it, it saved Greg a lot of soul searching.

“A deliberate and precisely executed permanent design bears no resemblance at all to careless lines left by whip wielding incompetents.” The second coil of rope joined the first. “A safeword is required to return a measure of control to the Submissive party as their Dominant cannot be trusted to stop him or herself.”

“So-”

“A safeword, Gregory, is only as good as its use.”

Mycroft pulled one of the drawers smoothly open and held an antique dagger and sheath up to the light. With a flick of the wrist the blade slid far enough from the sheath to demonstrate that this was no ornamental display blade.

“I could walk over to you right this second and carve my initials into your flesh, and even if you could, you wouldn’t safeword, despite not being sure if you want it.” Mycroft remarked conversationally, eyes transfixed by the play of light over the blade. “Your Alpha nature makes you a dangerous Submissive, Gregory, as dangerous as you could have been as a Dominant, only to yourself rather than others.”

The knife slid back into the sheath with a metallic shing and Greg managed his first breath since it had been revealed as the atmosphere lightened incrementally.

“With your average Submissive off the street I would require a safeword. I am more perceptive than your average Dominant, but not even I could read a stranger well enough not to run the potential risk of misusing their trust. Their bodies would be mine to read, but their mental and emotional landscapes unmapped, unknown dangers buried in the psyche, uncertain training possibly in contradiction to my expectations.”

The knife was returned to the drawer.

“And... and me?” Fingers clutched the pillow under his cheek.

“With you Gregory?” For the first time since Greg had unknowingly begun this series of revelations Mycroft turned his head and met Greg’s eyes.

Mycroft always had a presence, was always the focus of the room when people forgot to focus elsewhere and let their eyes naturally draw back to the most Dominant force exuded. The intensity of Mycroft’s gaze was magnetic and Greg found himself leaning toward him, a lodestone to the North.

“I know you.” The words were soft whispers, rumbling vibrations crossing the void between them. “I know your thoughts, your hopes, your wishes and your dreams. I know how you strive, I know how you fight, fail and fall. I know your body, your muscles and scars, as no one else ever has. I know your heart, I know your mind, I know your soul. I know your limits, your boundaries, your borders better than you yourself. I know you.”

Mycroft’s gaze broke away and slid to the ropes, neatly awaiting storage. A finger trailed around the coil before running down the stacked rounds. “With you, Gregory, there is no safeword.”

Greg turned his face into the pillow and blinked furiously. Distantly he could hear items being collected from the floor and being packed away, drawers sliding open and shut.

If he lifted his head and asked Mycroft more, he thought the Dom might actually answer. It felt that way, as if he could ask anything and have it answered. He opened his mouth and let it fall closed.

He _could_ ask, but he felt raw, emotions run ragged as he rose that last distance from Subspace. Mycroft appeared even more emotionally wrought than Greg felt, was probably an absolute mess on the inside. It wasn’t Mycroft saying he loved Greg, but somehow, somehow...

“Come to bed.” Greg’s arm flailed in Mycroft’s direction.

“I should clean up.” Mycroft demurred.

What he wanted was space, space to resurrect his masks and walls. Greg knew this, which is why he didn’t want to let Mycroft leave.

“My, come to-”

“Sleep, Gregory.” Mycroft stepped away from the dressing table, last item returned to its place. “I have some things to take care of.”

He walked towards the door, silk rustling around his legs with every step.

Against his better judgement, Greg let him go.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas!
> 
> Does it surprise anyone that my excuse for being late is the Silly Season? I really must appologise, but it's rather hard to get people to leave a dinner party on the preface that you need to go and update your online work of fiction, normally because that leads to "Oh, you write? What about? What genre?" and given the topics in this story... yeah not one to answer, that's for sure.
> 
> There are two chapters for you, because I am late (Sorry again). I will try to update on Wednesday, but I'm at a relative's for Christmas, so it might be Boxing Day. I won't make you wait until next Sunday though. 
> 
> No real warnings, though vague descriptions of another character approaching subdrop-ish, and a lot more information about Doms on general and John in particular.

As far as Greg was concerned taking a taxi home from the Yard was a waste of both time and money. Time because unless you were Sherlock Holmes, with his mystical ability to instantly summon a cab at any time no matter where he was, then generally speaking the London Cab service was inevitably busy whenever Greg wanted to get home because, generally speaking, everyone else had the same idea and wanted to go home too.

It was a waste of money because the tube station was easily accessible at either end. It wasn’t that much of a hardship to change trains, twice, because the Yard and Knightsbridge were on different lines. If Greg really minded, there was a bus he could have taken, but he preferred the tube.

After that first occasion when his progress had been a total mental blur, walking the entire way from the Yard to Mycroft’s, their, house wasn’t Greg’s preferred method of transport home. When he’d looked it up on Google maps and realised how far it actually was, he had to wonder how he’d managed to stumble that far in a daze without getting hit by a car.

The distance from the tube to the house was still a reasonable walk, nothing compared to his old commute, but enough to let him stretch his legs at the end of the day. Having said that, he was not looking forward to his pleasant little walk in the middle of true winter. The days may have been getting longer, but he was still walking home in the dark as it was.

The air was just slightly biting for his walk home that night. He’d forgotten his gloves in his desk drawer, again, so his hands were tucked deep into pockets against the chill. It wouldn’t have been so noticeable except that the day had actually dared to verge on warm, so the sudden drop of temperature with the sunset seemed more drastic than it really was. The cold also settled into his stiff muscles, amplifying the overall impression that it was close to freezing.

Greg would be lying if he’d tried to claim there were no lasting effects from the previous night. Minor though most of it was, he did have a general level of muscle ache and stiffness, especially across his back, and his right shoulder was more than minor if he were forced to be honest. Rolling it around produced a twinge halfway through the motion, but he wasn’t young and if all he’d got out of being trussed up like a pig was a slight shoulder twinge he considered it a good deal.

Those yoga classes though looked like a really good idea. He’d used his lunch break to slip into a bookstore and peruse the adults only section, trying to get an idea of what else Mycroft would do and had learnt two things:

  1. There were some very creative ways those ropes could be tied; and
  2. In deference to his physical condition, Mycroft hadn’t tied him as far into those positions as he could have.



He’d stuffed the book back on the shelf feeling flushed. Definitely taking up yoga.

More immediately worrying was the fact Mycroft hadn’t come to bed last night. Greg assumed he’d slept, but he hadn’t returned by the time Greg’s eyes had given in and closed despite his efforts to the contrary, and the bedside lamp was still on when Greg was woken by the alarm with no sign of the bed’s usual occupant.

Mycroft had in fact been downstairs in the kitchen about to leave as Greg stumbled down in his jogging gear. Greg didn’t _think_ Mycroft would manufacture an international emergency three days after Anthea had laid down the law just to avoid Greg, but he certainly might treat one as more serious than it was in reality. Either way, Mycroft had been gone long before he should have been that morning. Greg hoped it came with a corresponding shortening of hours at the other end and Mycroft found himself being sent home early. It would serve him right.

Burying his fingers even deeper in his pockets in search of warmth, Greg could only admire the differences in his walk home. He hadn’t lived in a bad area by any means, but it was an area dominated by flats and semi-detached buildings, the occasional graffiti tag and people: old grannies with their trolley bags toting the groceries home, teenagers attempting to be cool and rad and rebellious while unknowingly walking in their parent’s footprints, families coming home from school or the park.

He saw none of them here. Here there were sleek cars ranging from silent black to the obnoxiously obvious red, orange and yellow favoured by sports car owners. Here there were tourists marvelling at magnificently maintained facades, strolling through manicured public parks, hoping to catch a glimpse of someone they would recognise from the tabloids. There were no twitching curtains, not overt ones anyway, no graffiti tags, and the teenaged rebellion, common across all walks of life, took a completely different form and flavour to the punked out kids of Greg’s youth. These kids dressed better, had more money, and ultimately spent it on a better grade of exactly the same stuff.

What had Mycroft’s rebellious years looked like? It was easy to imagine Sherlock as one of those teenagers who went out partying until all hours and arrived home drunk and high on who knows what because Greg had seen him when he was using, high on everything under the sun and drunk on crime. Admittedly Greg couldn’t see the ‘partying’ part because he couldn’t imagine teenaged Sherlock with friends to go out with, but he could imagine him coming home off his face.

Had Sherlock ever dealt? He had enough scientific know how that he could have manufactured his own supplies, but Greg would rather not follow that thought through.

It was impossible to imagine the oh-so-proper Mycroft coming home late smelling of booze and sex. It was hard to imagine him staying out past curfew (had they had a curfew?) and if he had it was probably because debating club or choir ran late.

Sighing Greg shook his head. Mycroft hadn’t been born in those three piece suits, but sometimes it was so hard to remember that.

He rounded the last corner and paused to let a taxi fly past. Taxis weren’t quite as uncommon in the area as he’d first believed. Saturday night, or Sunday morning to be accurate, there were plenty of them, all filled with the afore mentioned scantily clad and out of their mind teenagers and young adults. This taxi caught his attention though as it slid to an abrupt halt outside Mycroft’s front door.

Curious Greg began to cross the road, but he hadn’t made it off the pavement before Sherlock barrelled out of the cab. Before Greg had finished crossing, Sherlock had the door open and had bolted inside, leaving the door swinging and the taxi driver leaning on his horn, expecting payment.

Greg poked his head in the taxi and smiled his best ‘I’m a policeman, you can trust me’ smile. “Hang on mate. I live here; I’ll just go and get him.”

The cab driver looked sceptical, but he did at least lay off the horn.

With another sigh lurking around the edges of his lips, Greg trundled up the stairs and stepped into the house. It wasn’t hard to find Sherlock.

Judging by the book and cup of tea, Mycroft had indeed been sent home from work early and had settled down in the library to read. That same book was now lying haphazardly on the carpet, splayed open in such a way that could not be good for the deep red leather binding, and Mycroft’s lap was full instead with his trembling brother. Sherlock’s face was buried in Mycroft’s chest, obscured by the ever present suit jacket, but he was clearly on the verge of crying if he wasn’t already doing so.

Greg’s general plan, berate Sherlock into giving up his wallet and going and paying the cabbie, evaporated faster than it had formed. Instead he went back outside, shutting and locking the door behind him, and clambered into the cab.

“The Beehive, Crawford Street. Just keep the meter going.” Greg added when the cabbie looked like he was going to argue.

The Beehive was a pub near 221B John favoured. If Greg was right, Sherlock wasn’t the only one who needed company right now.

The first time John’s mobile rang out. Greg stubbornly pressed redial, and then redial again.

When John did pick up, Greg didn’t give him a chance to speak. “The Beehive, 30 minutes.”

“Greg I really don’t-”

“The Beehive, 30 minutes. You can come on your own two feet or I can force you down the stairs and into the cab myself. Your choice.”

There was silence on the other end of the line. Greg had just opened his mouth to redirect the cab to Baker Street when John finally spoke.

“30 minutes.”

The dial tone sounded in Greg’s ear.

Not willing to be caught short, Greg quickly dialled Mrs Hudson, recently returned from wherever she’d stayed during Sherlock’s Heat, and requested she let him know when, and if, John Watson left the house. The text message that he had in fact gone arrived when Greg was about five minutes away.

Those last five minutes were spent contemplating the situation and warily watching the meter. He was, after all, only carrying a finite level of cash and while he could undoubtedly get more inside the Pub, he doubted this particular driver would be greatly amenable to that suggestion. Luckily the total was below his supply of ready cash when they pulled up and Greg even left a reasonably substantial tip in an effort to smooth over Sherlock’s earlier emotional behaviour. From the way the cabbie pulled off, reasonably substantial was not substantial enough.

The Beehive was relatively quiet, being a Tuesday night. The dark green exterior was complemented by flowers, riotous in colour now that spring had official sprung. Old fashioned lamps hung between the white paned windows. Even in the city the contrast between the street and the interior was stark enough to make the windows glow with warmth.

Inside had mostly been converted to tables and eating areas, but there were still barstools pulled up around the antique bar. Greg walked to the far end away from the door, and chose what would hopefully remain a relatively private spot. There was no one currently outside on the benches, but it was still cold enough Greg wanted to avoid being outside if possible.

The menu was an entirely fancy affair and Greg threw it aside with a grunt. The food here was good, but he wasn’t looking for a meal. What he wanted was a bowel of chips to cushion the alcohol John was undoubtedly about to consume. Bruschetta just didn’t quite serve the same role.

John walked slowly past the windows towards the doorway and Greg took the time to order two pints of John’s favoured dark ale. The drinks arrived just as John’s depressed heavy footsteps reached the bar.

“John.” Greg greeted him solemnly, holding out the pint.

“Greg, I’m really not in the mood.” John didn’t take the offered drink. “I’ll just-”

“Sit.” Greg ordered him, firmly nodding at the bar stool. John slid into it with a reluctant sigh.

“What’s Mycroft done?” John asked in a resigned tone.

“Nothing,” Greg offered the pint again, “unless you count comforting your distraught Sub.”

John took the pint, but didn’t say anything.

“John,” Greg prompted gently.

John’s hands tightened around the glass and his eyes remained fixed on the bar surface.

“John,” Greg tried again.

“The test came back negative.” John’s voice was smothered in grief.

“Shit.” Greg closed his eyes. He’d suspected since Sherlock had shown up and thrown himself at Mycroft, but the confirmation was brutal. “I’m sorry, mate.”

John didn’t reply, just took several large slow mouthfuls of ale.

“I just hoped, you know.” He eventually blurted out. “It would...after...it seemed like it would _fix_ things.”

Greg winced, knowing John was referring to the tear in the Bond between him and Sherlock that Greg had indirectly been at least partially responsible for.

“Heat didn’t...?” He tentatively asked.

John’s body slumped. “No. It feels like it’s scarred over, and it hurts less, but it’s not healed. I don’t know if it’ll ever be healed properly.”

“I’m-”

“It’s not your fault, Greg. It’s not even really Mycroft’s or Sherlock’s. I guess sometimes shit just happens.” John sounded resigned to the point of lifeless. He’d also finished his ale.

Greg silently ordered another and refrained from saying more until it was in front of John and half gone. He sent the bartender a look, who nodded in return. He understood – keep ‘em coming.

It was the remainder of that pint and half another before Greg spoke again.

“How’re you handling it?” He flattered himself his tone was genuine, even if it was the least original question with a terribly obvious answer, but it had to be asked.

“It’s probably a good thing.” John mumbled into his pint. “I mean there is no way in hell we’re qualified to be good parents. A baby would never fit into our lives. This is better.”

His swig had a certain finality about it; John trying to convince himself of what he said.

“That’s not true. You and Sherlock would be great parents. Much better than... other people.” Greg finished, trusting John to understand the reference. “Unusual, but I’m sure you’d be good at it.”

John gave a disbelieving snort. “We’d menace the poor kid. He’d be in therapy for the whole of his life. We’d have to take him in before he could talk.”

Greg launched into another round of denial, but more as a matter of form than an actual attempt to convince John of anything as it was clear from his preoccupied gaze John wasn’t listening. He wasn’t even drinking, pint loosely held off the bar by one limp wrist.

“It’s for the best.” He murmured, breaking through Greg’s token stream of words, eyes still focused beyond the bottles displayed over the bar. “Sherlock doesn’t want one and I couldn’t be trusted with one anyway.”

“John,” Greg laid a hand gently on John’s wrist, making sure to get his attention, “you’re wrong on both accounts.”

John’s eyes looked blankly through him without even a spark of curiosity or fire. “No I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.” Greg promised. “Sherlock would love a baby and of course you’d be a good dad.”

John let out a strangled laugh and turned his gaze back to the bar.

‘Lost him.’ Greg thought sadly.

“I think I’ve well and truly proven I am totally unsuitable to be entrusted with a baby.” The bitter tone said more than the words themselves.

“John, that’s ridic-”

“You have no idea.” John didn’t actually yell the words, but they were sharp enough he may as well have. “You have no idea what it’s like.” John trailed off and the brief flame in his eyes extinguished, leaving them flat and dull.

“No,” his voice almost as dead as his eyes, “no, you really wouldn’t, would you.”

“John,” Greg’s mouth was dry.

Surely John hadn’t had nearly enough to have this conversation, in public, right now.

“Almost no one does.” John’s gaze stayed on his pint glass. “No idea at all.”

“Explain it to me then.”

This wasn’t about Greg being a Sub. It wasn’t even about Greg as a father-to-be, so Greg sat and waited for John to continue. It seemed like he would.

The bartender replaced John’s glass, but he didn’t take a sip. Instead he absently ran his finger around and around the rim of the glass, collecting foam on the edge of his nail.

“They pray for us.” John said eventually. “They hope and wish and make deals with the universe: let my child be a Dom, let my child be a strong powerful Dom. Society loves and rewards the extremely Dominant; we’re considered the ultimate of aspirations, told we’re everything people should try to be.” John pulled a face, “but when we are ourselves, when those traits that come along with being Alpha Dominant like society craves interfere with their modern little lives, we’re told to go, get lost, put it away. As if it’s that easy.”

John took a swig of ale and continued. “Society encourages Dominance, it literally breeds the traits it recoils from into Alphas, and then looks surprised when we don’t fit in their modern cosmopolitan society. Dominants are territorial, it’s all tribal instinct and anthropological imperatives, and we’re just meant to ignore it because it doesn’t fit with the modern ideas of freewill and free thought.”

“Doms aren’t particularly territorial.” Greg corrected gently. “That’s an Alpha trait, and not all Doms are Alphas.”

John waved him off dismissively. “Not all Alphas are strong Doms, but all strong Doms are Alphas.”

“I’m not,” he continued seeing Greg open his mouth, “talking about your average Joe off the street Greg. It’s not...”

John trailed off, searching for words. Greg let him think and finished his ale while he waited.

“Alpha Doms are protective because once upon a time it served a purpose.” John finally said. “It comes from the same instinctive root as racial prejudice. It’s an instinctive way to recognise outsiders who might harm the family group. Does it serve a purpose now, no. Is it correct, no,” John sighed, “but it’s one thing to consciously overcome inbuilt prejudices, and it’s another thing all together to suddenly be told not to protect your family group, and if you try...”

It was this kind of debate Greg always avoided because he couldn’t get into it without revealing himself, but John already knew and Greg had asked knowing from experience John was a rambling philosopher once he’d had alcohol. Besides, Greg was willing to do a lot if it got rid of the flat distant tone in John’s voice. Given the technical edge John was giving the subject matter you’d at least hope for a level of boredom or disdain, but an emeritus professor standing in front of first year students for the 500th time had more life in him than John. There was more life in a morgue than John.

“But like I said John,” Greg began carefully, “protectiveness is an Alpha trait not a Dominant one so you can’t be any worse than any other Alpha out there.”

“You’re the one who talked about how Dominant traits complement Alpha ones and enhanced them.” John countered.

Greg had to concede that. He’d never really followed his thought process through, other than to idly note which traits he had as an Alpha, which he was missing, and how they countered his Submissive ones the same way Dominant traits would have complemented. The logical follow on was that the stronger the Dom, the more the Alpha-ness was enhanced.

John was a very strong Dom. Did that make him ‘more’ Alpha than Greg?

“You don’t like that idea,” John took a mouthful.

No, Greg had to admit he didn’t. The idea that he was less of an Alpha just because he was a Sub wasn’t something his very Alpha pride liked. He could handle being mistaken for a pathetically weak Dom, but the idea that made him less who he was, and that other Alphas might look down on him for it as Alphas not as Doms, wasn’t comfortable.

“Mycroft mentioned something yesterday,” he started. “Well, he didn’t really mention it. It was more that it came up in conversation and he said, it was more of an attitude, but it seems sort of like you’re...apparently he sees normal Doms as below his notice and out of control.”

“Of course he does.” John snorted into his ale. “Mycroft’s an extraordinarily strong Dominant. Why would he waste his attention on ordinary people?”

Greg wasn’t sure if John’s comment was sarcastic, rhetorical or genuine. This must have shown on his face because John rolled his eyes and continued, voice flavouring with exasperation that Greg tried to remind himself was better than how he’d sounded previously. It wasn’t easy with the exasperation aimed at him.

“Greg, you are in an entirely unique position to understand this. Try and think about it.”

John, Greg decided was at least still politer than his Omega when calling Greg an unobservant idiot.

“I don’t-”

“Think about the Yard.” John said firmly. “Think about who fights the most, the conflicts that go on.”

Greg’s first reaction was ‘Sherlock and everyone’, followed quickly by ‘why am I doing this’ and then ‘Sally and Anderson’. There were more than a few DCs, DS and DIs that regularly sniped and a couple of Constables who had been transferred after they proved unable to tolerate each other. That was a very black mark on your record though, that you had that little control, so most people kept it more subtle than the all-out fist fights that had severely crippled the hapless Constables’ careers.

“It’s just a normal work place,” Greg protested. “A bit more high stress than most maybe, but normal. It’s not like we get people throwing punches.”

“I don’t mean fist fights, Greg. Conflicts don’t have to be physical.”

“No,” Greg admitted. “Sally and Anderson keep falling out, but there’s a lot of stress there, especially as he’s being an idiot. Georgez and Mason keep having minor tussles, but so does Tucker and a whole bunch of other people.”

Greg sipped his ale and rolled his shoulders, ignoring the twinge in the right.

“If you’re trying to get me to note they’re all Doms, well, Doms are more aggressive and there are plenty of Subs who-”

John shook his head.

“I’m _trying_ ,” he stressed the word, “to get you to note the pattern: Doms of a similar Dominance level fighting for standing in the pack structure because neither clearly outranks the other; Alphas who are weaker Doms than their challengers constantly trying to reaffirm their rank. Civilised society.” John spat out the last words as if they were poison.

“So what you’re saying is that the reason Doms have so much trouble working together is because they’re all locked into some primitive struggle for places in the pecking order?”

“It’s why in the military a commanding officer is always clearly more dominant than any of the Doms they’re over, yes.”

“But-”

“Dominance _is_ primitive, Greg. It doesn’t fit in anymore, but they keep breeding it into us and polarising things: the strong Doms get stronger, the weak Doms get weaker until you have Alphas like you on one end and Mycroft on the other.”

“This is why you’re so unassuming isn’t it?” Greg made an intuitive leap.

John shrugged. “I have no need to challenge them. I’m clearly above them, so why bother. There isn’t a Dom in the Yard I couldn’t floor, and now they know that too. There’s no need to reaffirm it. No one could challenge me, so why bother with them?”

“So weaker Doms squabble more and stronger Doms don’t feel the need?” Greg was intrigued despite himself. He knew John was deliberately driving them further off topic, but it was a fascinating insight into both John and Mycroft.

“Not quite,” John hedged. “There’s no driver to challenge a significantly weaker Dom. It’d be like a lion challenging a domestic kitten.”

“But two lions...” Greg tailed off.

“Pretty much. Look at it this way,” John actually swung his stool to face Greg. There was still a shadow hanging over his face, but he’d done a good job thrusting it all away into his own store-and-ignore box. “You’ve known Sherlock six or so years, yeah? How long have you known Mycroft? Three?”

“And a half.” Greg mumbled self-consciously into his glass.

“And a half.” John allowed. “It’s not like he pounced on you straight up though. I’d go so far as to say he didn’t approach you ‘til something happened, enough to force him to need to use you.”

“I’m not a-” Greg scowled. John raised an eyebrow and Greg stopped. “Just after Sherlock’s second escape from rehab. He appeared on my couch.”

“You became useful,” John remarked dryly. “Bet he never bothered to Dom you either.”

“He tried to intimidate me.” Greg growled. “It’ve been against all good manners to have tried to Dom me.”

“And a foregone conclusion so there was no need.”

“Oh so he tried to Dom you then did he?” Greg snarled.

John wasn’t trying to be insulting and hurtful, Greg didn’t think, but that didn’t mean his insinuations weren’t pulling at Greg’s rather tender sense of self.

“Yes.” John replied bluntly.

“What, really?”

“Really. Course I tried to do the same back. Nothing as obvious as using active verbal Dominance of course, but there were certainly boundaries tested. I’d known Sherlock less than a day.”

“Uh...” Greg wanted to ask, but wasn’t sure how.

“He’s stronger, but without actively trying to overpower each other I’d like to think we came out even. It’s not,” John hesitated. “A lot of Doms think it’s just about the active Dominance you assert. It’s not, it’s in everything – posture, words, gait, body language, reactions. Passive. I can’t explain more than that.”

“It sounds like a different language.”

“It’s not really, people have just forgotten how to speak it. They can still _hear_ it and recognise most of the stronger Doms, but they’re like children babbling with their attempts to copy it all. The average Dom’s body language gives me a headache because it’s almost right, but not. It’s like ...a really thick accent and they can’t annunciate.”

Greg absently traced a finger around the droplets of water on the bar. “You mean they can’t channel their Dominance through their body language.” He could still remember his shock when Mycroft had Dommed him purely with his eyes. “Why isn’t this more widely known?”

“Two-tiered society.” John replied promptly. “It’s our nature, but it’s no longer considered polite so people hide it. My bearer must have been one of the old family Omegas for me to be as strong as I am. It certainly wasn’t inherited from my Sire. I guarantee the Holmeses know all this, but it’s been bred almost out of people in general.”

“To be a Holmes is to know all.” Greg snorted.

John laughed into his ale, a strained, but genuine, sound. “Bout time you figured that out.”

“Well, us lesser beings take time.” Greg teased.

“More time than our Lords and Masters generally appreciate.”

Greg and John clinked glasses and chugged back the remains of their drinks in unison. It was a fairly even race: John had been in the army, but Greg was a police officer.

It was good. John seemed much better, much lighter. There was even some colour in his cheeks and his good humour was back, the John Watson Greg knew not the sour despondent Alpha who’d walked in. Sadly, Greg thought he’d avoided the subject long enough.

“Not that that wasn’t interesting, but why does that make you untrustworthy as a father?” Greg pressed.

John’s face shuttered and he turned his bar stool back to the bar. “It just does.”

“John.”

“Greg.”

“John.”

“Greg.”

“John, I’m serious.”

“So am I!” John’s fingers clanged on the bar surface. “Don’t you get it? Jesus, Greg.”

“Well, sorry I’m not a super Alpha like you.” Greg snapped. “But-”

“Sherlock was thirty when I met him. Thirty and his brother had a security team following him, tracking his every move and threatening anyone who _might_ get close to him who _might_ be a challenge. I’m still trying to find out the price of letting me move in, but I suspect Mummy was involved. When I found out Sherlock was an Omega, I _approved_ of Mycroft’s actions, I was _angry_ that I was allowed to live there because that meant Mycroft had stopped protecting him as much as he should have. An unbonded Omega and Mycroft had let me, an unbonded Alpha, move in!

“My sister is almost forty now and I can’t stay out of her life despite the fact it makes her hate me. She’s been married and divorced and I can barely limit my need to take control of everything and run her life for her.

“You, do you know how _hard_ it was not to drag you back to Baker Street and _force_ you to quit your addiction, to sit there over you and watch everything. Take away your bank card, and your accounts, and put you on an allowance until you were better.

“None of you are weak people. You’re an Alpha, she’s a Dom, Sherlock is Sherlock, who has the most forceful personality of anyone I’ve ever met. It doesn’t stop this _need_ to wrap you all in cotton wool and take care of you, never let anyone near any of you. A baby?” John’s voice choked up. “I’d destroy his life before he had a chance to live it. Assuming I didn’t chase Sherlock off first.”

“Sherlock would never leave you.” It was the only thing Greg could say, his head still reeling from John’s angry confession.

“Yes, he would. I’d cage him and he’d rebel against it. How could he not? He’s an independent minded adult, he has his own life, needs it to keep going, and I’d be hard pressed not to put a padlock on his door. It’s already so hard, so hard not to reduce him to so much less than he is. If he were pregnant? I’d be a monster, Greg and sooner or later he’d start sneaking around behind my back doing things, lying about it, and I’d come home and...” John’s head was in his hands, fingers clenched around the army short strands.

“He’s your Omega, John your Sub.”

“Do not say it’d be fine.” John broke in fiercely. “Being his Dom doesn’t give me control over his whole life. Being a Sub doesn’t mean he’ll put up with it. There’s a difference between dynamic and personality, and enjoying the freedom from control and thought at times doesn’t mean he’s the kind of person to roll over and accept my attempts to destroy him.”

Greg felt like he was treading water while being circled by sharks and was slowly sinking under the water.

“You don’t know-”

“Yes, I do.” John whispered. He sounded desolate. Mourning the relationship he hadn’t lost yet? “It’s happened before.”

With Sherlock Greg would have pulled him over and taken his hand in support. With John, he merely rested a fist on his shoulder briefly and then let it drop.

“Tell me.” He kept his voice calm and firm, the voice he used for interrogations when he was dealing with distraught witnesses, victims or occasionally perpetrators.

“There’s nothing to-”

“John.”

John swallowed.

“Did I ever tell you I’d been engaged?” He spoke, but didn’t lift his head off his hands.

“No.”

Greg had thought John had been relatively ambivalent to relationships his whole life. There had certainly never been any comments or hints that he’d been in such a long term committed relationship before Sherlock, and his fling with Sarah had never seemed particularly serious despite everything.

“While I was studying. We’d been to school together and then both came down to London to study. We weren’t together then, but we were by our second year.” John drained the rest of his ale.

Greg briefly considered ordering scotch instead, but decided at the rate John was going through his pints that wouldn’t be a good idea. The replacement pint was delivered and John kept going.

“Her name was Mary. She was beautiful; blonde and graceful. I’d pulled her pigtails in grade school. She threw mud at me in revenge. Blue eyes like the summer sky we see on the movies and never get, you could lose yourself in them for hours. She was studying history, planning on being a teacher when she was done given there’s not much more you could do with a history degree. I was going to be a Doctor, a Surgeon, specialise in something relating to children. That one was her idea. Cardiac surgeon specialising in children. She liked that.

“Everything was great. I proposed in my last year. She’d already finished her History degree and was almost finished with her degree in education. She said yes, we moved in together.”

The pint occupied John’s hands as he stared straight ahead. He wasn’t even looking as far as the back of the bar, just into thin air as the ale moved mechanically up and down, drinking while he talked.

“I thought it was perfect. I thought we were charmed, that things would work, that I could relax a little of that control. So I did, more and more I was _me_ around her. She was my fiancée, if anyone could handle the Alpha it’d be her right?

“It was gradual. I thought part of it was the stress of the wedding, all the planning. She started getting evasive about where she’d been, probably in reaction to me being more demanding about it. I preferred her friends to come over to our place than her go meet them somewhere else. I never stopped her going, but she could tell I wasn’t happy about it. It kept creeping: she’d avoid so I’d be more possessive, so she’d evade me more. It’s so obvious … well, hindsight’s 20/20 and all.

“I didn’t see it at the time. I thought she was fine, handling it, that we were fine. I started looking into flats and schools for her to work at that were close to Barts so I could visit her at lunch. Walk her there in the mornings, walk her home at night. I would arrange my shifts around her, of course.” John’s eyes clouded over.

“It was a Wednesday. I remember that, still. It was a Wednesday and it was sunny. I got home early because of that. I thought we could go for a walk while the weather was nice. She loved the park.” John trailed off and sat there, remembering.

“John?” Greg asked gently.

“I got home early.” John’s voice was automatic and mechanical. “She was packing. There was another Alpha there, in our flat, helping her, moving things, touching her. I don’t know what was said, things must have been said. I remember the feeling of his nose shattering under my fist and how it felt to pummel him into oblivion. I remember what he looked like on our floor as the police dragged me off him and Mary kneeling next to him crying, trying to stop the bleeding.

“I was in the holding cells overnight. Mary came and visited me. I thought she was there to bail me out, but all she did was stand on the other side and yell about how she couldn’t deal with me anymore. I was destroying her life, and how could anyone put up with my issues, my possessiveness, my need to control everything. How could anyone put up with me? What had I expected would happen when I turned into such a primitive nutjob? No one could live with that. No one would want to.

“They didn’t lay charges. The police considered it a row between two Alphas over a Sub and he didn’t press either. He was strong enough to know, strong enough to be a challenger, so he knew, I can remember that. He must have lived, or they’d have charged me with that though.

“It was strongly recommended I get anger management help, join an organisation to give me structure. They were hardly subtle: the army brochures were given to me with my effects. Battlefield medicine sounded more like me than children’s cardiac surgeon any day, so I signed up within the week. It was only a month until graduation. I missed the ceremony.” The pint glass landed with a thud on the bar. "There, happy now?"

John’s trust issues, his extreme reaction to Sherlock’s failing to tell him about Greg and Mycroft, his forbearance when it came to giving orders, let alone actively Dominanting anyone, doubly remarkable for someone with a military background, it all was so simply and tragically explained.

“I can’t lose Sherlock that way, Greg.” A lone tear trailed down John’s cheek. “Mary was hard, but not that bad. Not in the long term, not really. Sherlock, it would kill me if he left. Even knowing I’d made him feel that way, I-I...”

“Hey, hey.” Greg clumsily patted John’s shoulder, slightly panicked. He’d never actually seen John cry, though he’d been close last time they talked about kids in this pub.

“I _love_ him, Greg. It’s not just that we’re Bonded, he saved me and I love him. It terrifies me how much. I look at him sometimes and I want to tear everything off him and wrap him in my clothes so there’s no doubt he’s mine. I want to tattoo my name all over him, mark him indelibly as _mine_ , and the only reason I can hold back is the fact he’s wearing my collar. I want to see him with _our_ child, but I want it so much it can’t be safe for either of them.

“Especially,” John’s voice broke, “as Sherlock doesn’t want that. I can’t force him into it, I just can’t.”

“Now that is not true.” Greg couldn’t let that one stand. “Sherlock wants it as much as you do.”

“It’d get in the way too much.” John refused to listen. “He wouldn’t be able to take cases while he was pregnant and afterwards there’d be a baby, and he’s been so stressed this past fortnight worrying he was pregnant and-”

“John!” Greg forced John’s stool around to face him. “Shut up and listen to me. Sherlock wasn’t acting out because he was worried he was pregnant, he was worried he wasn’t. Sherlock wants a baby too. More than anything. I’m here because he ran into the house without even seeing me and threw himself at _Mycroft_ for comfort in floods of tears. He _wants_ a baby, and it’s hurting him as much as it’s hurting you.”

“That’s not-”

“Mycroft told me.” Greg interrupted and continued. “I think we can both say he would know, and the Omega I saw tonight was beyond devastated.” He let his voice gentle. “The two of you need to talk. Both of you have been stressed about this and because you won’t just _talk_ it’s harder than it needs to be on both of you.”

John didn’t look convinced, but his gaze did at least look regretful. “I’ve been neglecting him, I know, but I just couldn’t risk-”

“He doesn’t know that. I bet you’ve never told him about Mary. He’s probably feeling even worse because you’ve withdrawn from him and he doesn’t know why.”

John had the grace to look ashamed.

“Here’s what we’re going to do,” Greg said waving for the bill. “We’re going to get a cab and go back to mine. Then _you_ are going to comfort and look after your Sub, not his brother, and you two are going to talk and get back on the same page since at some point you stopped reading in unison. Okay?”

John looked like he was going to protest, but shook his head and merely said “okay” in a subdued voice.

Greg hid his wince at the tab. Good thing he wasn’t actually broke.

The trip from the Pub back to Mycroft’s was spent in silence, Greg eyeing the meter hesitantly and John tucked up in to a ball doing what sounded like breathing exercises.

Greg wondered how much of their conversation applied to Mycroft: Dom and Omega.

John clenched and unclenched his hands.

The cold clear air as Greg dove out of the cab on arrival was such a relief after the tense atmosphere inside. John followed more slowly and to Greg’s relief paid the cab fare.

The light was still on in the library, shining out behind the curtains. Greg unlocked the door and stepped inside, closing it behind himself and John. Concentrating on the lock he could hear John take a couple of bewildered steps before they froze. When Greg looked up John was staring into the library with such a pained expression on his face it made Greg’s heart hurt.

“Sherlock...” The name was an agonised whimper more than a word.

“Go to him.” Greg pushed on John’s shoulder, urging him forward.

Mycroft had managed to get the two of them slightly more comfortably situated on the couch while Greg had been gone, but the book still lay on the carpet and tea on the side table. Sherlock still lay there as well, curled into a ball, pale skin barely visible between black hair and black coat, pressed as deeply into the shelter of Mycroft’s arms as was possible.

The elder Holmes didn’t even bother to look up as John rushed in and fell to his knees next to the couch, Greg hanging back in the doorway. The younger didn’t look capable of doing so. He looked like he was bordering on Subdrop, a thought not helped by the way Mycroft was protectively position around him, the text book image of a Dom comforting a dropping Submissive family member.

“Sherlock, oh love, Sherlock.” John’s trembling fingers pushed damp curls off Sherlock’s cheeks where tears had stuck them to his skin. “Oh God, what have I done.”

Shaking fingers brushed back over the newly revealed skin.

“John?” Greg couldn’t see Sherlock’s eyes, but his voice was hoarse and thready.

“Yes, yes I’m here.” John’s hand smoothed over Sherlock’s hair, unable to keep from touching his Sub. “I’m here.”

Neither Greg or John expected Sherlock to shrink away from the touch and bury himself deeper into Mycroft’s jacket with an anguished cry.

“Sherlock...” John was close to tears himself. “Sherlock, please, look at me. _Please_.”

Sherlock buried himself deeper between Mycroft and the couch.

“ _Look at me_ , **please** , look at me.” John’s fingers hovered off Sherlock’s shoulder, unsure whether he was allowed to touch.

Slowly Sherlock pulled back and lifted his face. His eyes were swollen and red, porcelain complexion blotchy and tear streaked.

“I’m sorry.” He whispered brokenly. “I’m so sorry.”

“Sorry? Oh love, you have nothing to be sorry for.” John leant his forehead against Sherlock’s. 

Sherlock pulled away roughly. “Yes, I, I couldn’t even...” His voice faltered and a fresh wave of tears rolled down his cheeks. “You can have it back if you want.”

“Have what back?” John looked bewildered, still reaching for Sherlock. “Come here, please come here.”

“The ... collar.” Sherlock choked back.

John froze.

“Are,” he licked his lips, “are you giving it back?”

“If, if you w-want it. “

Greg tried to unwrap his hand from around the door frame, but couldn’t. He wasn’t watching this, he couldn’t possibly be watching the end of the best relationship he knew. Could he?

What hope did the rest of them have?

“If you want me to.” John’s voice was stable, completely the opposite of his body.

“I-I...”

“Why? Please Sherlock, tell me why. I know I’ve been neglecting you lately, I know things have been bad, but, but, w-hy?” John lost his control and was forced to lean on the edge of the couch.

“Because you want children. I k-know you do, I see the way you look at me, and I...” Sherlock buried his face back into Mycroft.

“You don’t?” Maybe John had believed Greg more than Greg thought, because there was genuine heartbreak and loss of hope in that question.

Sherlock’s head shot up. “Of course I do.”

“Then what’s the problem? Why are you...” John couldn’t finish, couldn’t say ‘leaving me’.

“Because I, ... again...”

John seized Sherlock and dragged him closer, almost pulling him off the couch. “I want _our_ children Sherlock. Not children in general. _Our_ children.”

Sherlock’s hand tentatively wrapped around the collar of John’s jacket. “But what if I... if I can’t...”

“Then I have you. That will always be enough.” John whispered fiercely. “I love you, and I never want to be without you.”

Sherlock tumbled off the couch in what was possibly a planned manoeuvre, but looked more like frantic scrambling as he buried himself in John’s arms instead.

“You are amazing.” John whispered. “You are amazing and you are mine and we will keep trying and trying, but if it doesn’t happen then it’s just not meant to be and I still have the most important thing.”

“I’m a failure.” Sherlock choked out from John’s neck.

“You are a brilliant detective who catches the worst criminals England can summon for a living. You’re an athlete, a scientist and a great person. You are not a failure.”

Mycroft slid off the couch and carefully moved around the two huddled on the floor, rescuing the book on the way. Following Mycroft’s lead, Greg let himself be drawn away from the door.

“Why are you like this, Sherlock? You don’t care -”

“I …you’d leave...”

The voices faded as Greg and Mycroft moved towards the stairs.

“Do you think they’ll stay?” Greg looked back towards the library, pausing at the bottom of the stairs.

A couple of steps above him, Mycroft shook his head.

“John will feel more comfortable with Sherlock back inside his own territory, as will Sherlock. I imagine they’ll head home when they’re able.”

Greg nodded and chewed his lip. “I never... Sherlock has never... why would he think John would leave because he wasn’t pregnant?”

Mycroft’s footsteps froze suspiciously on the stairs. When Greg looked up his lover was more reminiscent of a statue than a living breathing person.

“My?” He walked carefully up to him and stroked the sleeve of his jacket.

“It’s our role isn’t it?” Mycroft’s voice was distant. “It’s all Omegas are good for, breeding.”

“That’s not true.” Greg kept his voice soft. “Not anymore.”

“Not everyone believes that.” Mycroft turned brusquely and continued up the stairs.

Greg followed, feeling the urge to go in and smash everything in the Green Room.

“Can I just hold you tonight?” He asked impulsively.

He felt too wrung out to go through a session tonight, and more than a little tipsy from the ale without dinner, despite drinking nowhere near the number John had.

The stillness that settled over Mycroft’s figure wasn’t the icy freeze Greg’s earlier comment had elicited, but it wasn’t the posture of someone comfortable with the discussion.

“If that’s what you wish.” Mycroft’s voice was carefully controlled.

“Hey,” Greg grabbed at Mycroft’s sleeve and waited until he faced him. “If you still need space, it’s okay, I understand. I can sleep in my room tonight.”

He didn’t want Mycroft to say yes, but he’d rather that if it meant Mycroft actually slept in a bed rather than on a couch somewhere.

“That might be best.” Mycroft took the final step, walked down the hallway and into his room, letting the door fall shut with a soft click, clearly audible from Greg’s position on the stairs.

Feeling old, Greg walked up the last few steps himself and paused in front of Mycroft’s door. So much for his hopes that Mycroft might be okay after last night.

 “Good night, My. I’ll see you in the morning.” He gently ran a finger down the door before turning and walking into his room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hands up anyone who is surprised that Mycroft is freaking out. 
> 
> No one? 
> 
> And here I thought it was ssuuuuccchhhh a shock. :P


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so, we now move the the beginning of the life of one Gregory Lestrade, at the Yard. By which I mean, we're going to start looking at some of the case fic stuff as well as the relationship drama. Hopefully it'll cut across it and lighten it a bit, but I think I slightly failed there and it's just going to give you more characters to hate/love/feel for. 
> 
> No warnings yet, but bonus points for sleepy Mycroft?

The bed was far too big. Greg lay there in the centre, on the left, on the right, and turned over and over. He resisted the urge to sit up and punch his pillow back into shape. The pillow was new, never used, the filling perfectly distributed inside its fabric casing. There was no point giving in to his frustrations and taking it out on the hapless pillow, just because he couldn’t sleep.

He turned over onto his other side and tucked a hand under his cheek. Then he moved it under the pillow. Then in a fit of temper he hurled the pillow across the room and pulled another from the stack next to him. It wasn’t as though he was running short.

Everything about sleeping in this room, ‘his room’, bothered him. Not the fact that he was, he could understand that Mycroft still needed space, but physically he was having trouble sleeping despite the alcohol and emotional exhaustion.

The mattress was slightly firmer than his one back at his flat and a million times more comfortable without the worn down grooves from years of use. This was the first time Greg had used it, possibly the first time it had ever been used. He’d lived with Mycroft for weeks and he’d never even lain on ‘his’ bed.

That was the problem, Greg realised. He hadn’t spent any time in this room; it wasn’t ‘his’. He felt like he was sleeping in the guest room, which as far as he’d been viewing things wasn’t far off. The only use he’d made of it was effectively as a dressing room. Boxes still littered the floor, pushed neatly back against the wall, but still there. Other than his exercise gear and work clothes even the rest of his wardrobe was still boxed up waiting for attention.

He wasn’t sure what to put out in the way of photos and knickknacks from before, didn’t know whether he could put holes in the wall to hang pictures or not. The bookshelves were still empty though and he had no excuse there. The room was artificially neat and ordered. It wasn’t his room. It was just a room with a bed.

He hadn’t had any such trouble sleeping in the Master bedroom where he was arguably even more of a guest than in here. Was that because it was Mycroft’s room, was he having trouble sleeping because there wasn’t Mycroft here with him?

Greg rolled over again then got out of bed and strode over to the heavy curtains, yanking them open in defiance of the pull cord.

Light streamed through the gap he’d created leaving him silhouetted on the floor. The warm glow from the street lamps mingled with the stark moonlight and the occasional harsh beam of headlights as a car passed with a silent purr beneath him.

The Holmes’s townhouse faced other buildings rather than one of the parks. The lights were off and curtains drawn, all except one of the buildings where the faintest gleam still showed around the drapes.

A cat yowled and ran down the road. In the stillness Greg could hear the slight chiming of a bell. Someone’s purebred pet, undoubtedly worth thousands, had escaped and was making a dash for freedom.

The thought of opening the window entered and left Greg’s mind. There was nothing opening the window could do to relieve the restlessness he felt.

The lights from a taxi swept along the road, arching brightly into Greg’s window. The beam sharply illuminated the white wall of the building opposite, then fell to rest on the black bitumen, engine thrumming as the driver put it in neutral to wait.

The door for the house with the light opened and two young boys stepped through. The backpacks said they’d been studying, the giggling and pecking kisses the one was leaving over the other’s face suggested they’d been doing more than studying. The one higher on the steps, still within the bounds of the doorway, seemed to urge the other to leave, but was coaxed back twice for more kisses, one of them much more than innocent.

The spell that fell over them afterwards, gazing infatuatedly into each other’s eyes, was broken by the cabbie revving the cab. Giggling the Alpha, Greg assumed he was an Alpha, was pushed away by his Omega, forcing him down the steps to the pavement, feigning heartbreak at the separation. The Omega bit his lip, probably blushing, but Greg was too far away to see in the moonlight, as the other boy kissed his fingers like some courtly prince from a story and disappeared into the cab. The door shut and after a few moments the light disappeared as well.

‘Young love,’ Greg smiled wistfully. The kids would probably see each other in school in a few hours and counting, but at that age every second seemed to count. Another similarity between his world and Mycroft’s, though at home he would have assumed one if not both of the boys were Betas, and another teenage experience he suspected both of them had missed out on.

The pyjamas rustled around his legs as he returned to the bed, leaving the curtains open, the lights of London reminding him of another inconsistency about tonight and his life for the last few weeks. The nights in Mycroft’s bed had been spent at most in pants. Mycroft would always redress, sliding on silk or satin pyjama sets, but Greg had never moved any into Mycroft’s room and certainly never felt the need to leave and fetch night wear after their nightly seasons.

This was also the first night in months he was going to bed without being taken down to Subspace and sex. It really was no wonder he was too keyed up to sleep.

With an exhale he let himself fall backwards on the bed, arms outstretched, staring up at the shadowed ceiling. The light threw the ceiling rose into a mess of blurred contrasts and stark details. It was nothing like his plain white dingy ceiling in his old place. Here the shadows were intricate curls, not cobwebs that would never dare reside in any house maintained by Mrs Potts.

Greg rolled over again and tucked his feet in under the covers. Eventually he drew them over his body as well. Then he flipped over and stared the other way for a bit. Then he flopped back.

Somehow, eventually he slept.

Morning was both too soon and not soon enough. Routine woke Greg early enough for his run, all to the good as he hadn’t remembered to set an alarm, the usual one being in the other room. He debated not going and trying to snatch a few more minutes sleep, but the same restlessness that hadn’t let him sleep the night before wouldn’t let him fall back to sleep then either, so eventually he rolled out of bed and debated the merits of a shortened run or a long shower and starting work early, maybe cutting down some of the detritus already beginning to sneak into his in-tray.

The roll of thunder and pitter patter of rain weighed heavily for the latter.

Mycroft’s door was shut as Greg went for his shower and still shut when he emerged afterwards washed and freshly shaven.

He had some extra time before work, thanks to skipping his morning run, and his Uncle had taught him a few things whenever Greg was sent to him because things weren’t all that good at home. If not for his pitying, self-righteous cousins they would have been some of the best times of Greg’s life.

“My,” Greg knocked gently on the door. “I was thinking of doing crepes for breakfast. If you’re up to it of course.” He added quickly.

There was movement on the other side and the door eased open carefully.

“No, run this morning?” Mycroft hid a yawn behind his hand.

“Slept in.” Greg answered truthfully, leaving out the part about barely slept.

Even Mycroft Holmes looked adorably tousled straight out of bed in the morning. His dark hair was kept short, but that didn’t stop a brave wisp at the back trying to curl or prevent the tuft above his right ear sticking up in completely the wrong direction. Nor was Mycroft immune to pillow imprints on his cheek or the general air of cuddliness that surrounded the half asleep.

Greg resisted the urge to tuck the hair back down behind Mycroft’s ear properly as he blinked rapidly in sleepy confusion.

“I was thinking of making crepes for breakfast.” Greg repeated.

Mycroft nodded slowly in acknowledgement of Greg’s statement. He didn’t reply, just remained standing there, left arm leant against the doorway, right arm dangling nonchalantly at his side.

“Would you like some?” Greg asked hesitantly.

Mycroft swallowed convulsively several times in rapid succession.

“I think I might refrain this morning.” Mycroft leant his forehead on his forearm, elbow still braced against the door frame.

“My?” Greg held out a cautious hand, but was waved off. Mycroft’s right hand had wrapped around his waist.

“I think,” Mycroft’s voice was thick and he paused to press the back of his hand over his mouth, eyes closed as he swallowed rapidly. “If you might excuse...”

“Go, go.” Greg waved him away frantically.

The door fell shut and the quick shuffle of footsteps could be heard across carpet, followed by another door. Even though he couldn’t hear anymore, Greg could guess fairly easily where Mycroft had ended up. It was also fairly clear he didn’t want company for this, a fact for which Greg heartily didn’t blame him.

Instead Greg headed down to the kitchen and stared at the fridge for a bit. He could still make crepes, but his enthusiasm was more than slightly diminished, as he suspected Mycroft’s would be. Sighing Greg pulled out the milk and orange juice and poured himself a bowl of cereal. It was incredibly unsatisfying in comparison.

The bedroom door was (still) shut when Greg climbed back upstairs to clean his teeth, a silent command that the occupant didn’t want company yet, and probably wouldn’t until he was armoured in his bespoke suit and handmade shoes. Even Before Greg wasn’t sure Mycroft would have let Greg see him bent over a toilet heaving his guts out. The track pants had been amazing a sight enough. For such an image conscious person being watched vomiting must have been something relegated to nightmares.

Unable to leave without making some effort to care for his Omega, Greg left a glass of water and a glass of juice on the table, a tea cup and tea making equipment on the bench, and grouped a selection of fruit closer to the yoghurt in the fridge. He also removed Monday’s leftover lasagne before Mycroft saw it and got annoyed. It would do well for lunch.

The fire in the library had been carefully banked, and the book restored to its place on the bookshelf. The tea cup Mycroft had left as he’d diplomatically sidled out of the room had been washed and was next to the sink, so someone, probably John, had cleaned up before they had left last night. It slightly unnerved Greg that he didn’t know when John and Sherlock had left, despite lying awake in the same house.

Depleted bank balance or no, Greg had added one new indulgence into his life, and given it was even earlier than usual, Greg kept his pace slow and lingered in the cafe doorway.

“Morning, Inspector. You’re early. The usual?” The freckled uni student behind the counter gave Greg her most sincere smile.

“Yeah, thanks.” Greg returned her smile and rubbed his hands together, cursing the forgetfulness that had left his gloves at the Yard.

“Coming right up.” With a slight toss of her dark brown ponytail, she started on Greg’s morning saviour.

Tea and coffee were still prohibited items at the house under the iron law of Mrs Potts, and if Mycroft wasn’t allowed them Greg wasn’t brave enough to drink them in front of him. Tea he could manage at the Yard easily enough, but the swill the automated machine called coffee was good only for boredom and killing taste buds. It wasn’t even properly hot.

So Greg bought his coffee on the way, drank copious amounts of proper tea at work, and declined the disgusting herbal stuff Mycroft was reduced to drinking at home.

Mycroft knew Greg was cheating on the prohibition, and Greg knew Mycroft must know, but so far no comment had been made and Greg bought his little cup of heaven every morning to ride the Tube with.

“You’re earlier than usual. Don’t envy you out there in the cold, its frightful this morning. Just when we thought spring might be here. Susie was talking about heading down to the park, or maybe out to the countryside for a picnic yesterday. Certainly not so enthusiastic about that idea today I can tell you.” The hissing of the milk heating cut through the chatty barista’s low Northern burr.

Greg thought her name was Tamara, she didn’t wear a name tag. He knew from previous visits that Susie was a girl from uni, also studying criminology (or was it psychology?).

“Here ya go, Inspector.” The large cup of coffee was handed over with an even wider smile and Greg gratefully wrapped his fingers around it as Tamara fussed at the till and handed his change back.

The cheery wave as he left was more than necessary, he’d be back tomorrow without the enthusiastic service because the coffee really was that good, but at least she was still cheerful despite the early morning and university workload. If her cheerfulness verged on flirtatious, Greg was more than willing to be innocently flirted with for coffee this good by a pretty little Sub half his age.

Plonking down at his desk, coffee and cup long since disposed of, Greg allowed himself a few minutes respite before pulling off his scarf and overcoat, stuffing his gloves preventatively into the pockets, and hanging them on the coat rack in the pen.

Sally was by his door when he walked back.

“Sir.”

“Donovan.” He waved her in ahead of him. “You’re here early.”

She ignored his comment and sat in front of his desk, waiting for him to settle into his chair. As soon as he’d sat she had her notebook out and started.

“Forensic services want to meet about the Robinson case, work out what we want tested. The list of exhibits,” Greg dug into his inbox and found the appropriate list as she talked, “will need to be narrowed down.

The Robinson case was a stabbing outside a night club. There had been plenty of possible items collected for a variety of possible tests.

“Don’t bother with cigarette butts for now. The sister said our Vic didn’t smoke so unlikely he was out there for a ciggy with anyone.”

“No way of telling which butt would belong to our perp anyway.” Sally agreed. “Best they may be useful for is DNA to place him at the scene once we’ve ID’d him. Condoms?”

“More likely. They’re not going to like testing all,” he did a quick count, “thirty of them though.”

“It’s not a gay club.” Sally pulled a couple of photos out of the case file and studied the scene. “Vic was an Alpha. Think that wound could come from a Sub? I think a Beta, maybe, but I’m not sure a woman could have.”

Greg accepted the photos and frowned at the wound. “I think a strong woman could. What does pathology say?”

“Still waiting.”

“Any cameras come through yet?”

“Only one’s real. They were meant to send it yesterday. Only covers the entrance, but...”

“Better than nothing.” They sat in silence a few minutes, both going over their notes.

“What do you think?” Greg asked. He had his theory, but he wanted to hear hers.

“Not whoever he was with.” Sally replied promptly. “Robinson liked his Subs small and delicate. Can’t see one of them managing to do that.”

Greg nodded in agreement. He’d noticed the photos at Robinson’s place and assuming he’d kept to his almost ethereal preference, it was hard to imagine one of them going for him and succeeding.

“Dom then.”

“If she,” all the Subs in the photos had been female, “already had a Dom, especially one there... Poaching is not taken well.”

“Mmm.” Greg hummed in non-committal agreement.

“Or he went out alone and it’s drugs, maybe a deal gone bad.” Sally finished.

Greg sighed and wished for pathology. It was certainly a valid option until ruled out.

“You, sir?” Sally asked.

“Don’t disagree.” Greg flipped through a couple of pages in his notes. “Be easier with the footage and pathology. Huh...” He paused and read something.

Sally leant over the desk and started reading his notes upside down. By now she was used to his handwriting. “Bartender doesn’t recall him talking to any women, _but_ he was talking briefly to a young male Sub at the bar. Could be something. Not his usual type.”

“But could have possibly managed the injury.” Greg flipped a few more pages, but if any further thought had been spared for the Sub by the bartender, Greg hadn’t noted it down. “Might be worth getting some more information while we wait for the rest.”

Sally nodded and noted it in her personal notebook, the non-official one she used for brainstorming, lists and the betting pool.

“We need to go lean on someone about the footage if it isn’t here by lunch.”

Sally noted that too.

“And what tests do we want to request from forensics when we meet today?” She asked.

Greg scanned his copy of the exhibit list and shoved it back in its manila folder in his tray.

“Leave it. There’s nothing on there until we have a suspect. I’ll send an email putting a hold on the testing until pathology’s back and we have the footage. Maybe they can clear some of the backlog of other stuff we’ve requested instead.”

Sally snorted in disbelief, but didn’t comment.

“Okay,” she shoved the photos back in the case file and cycled it to the bottom of the stack. “Peterson, Kelly.”

Greg pulled the crime scene photos towards him to refresh his memory. “That’s the girl who died six months ago, yeah?”

“Kelly Peterson, 13, unpresented, found in a ditch three days after she failed to come home from Kendo practice.” Sally read out.

Greg remembered the case. It was the one he’d thoroughly shamed Dimmock about not calling in Sherlock when the girl was first missing and then found dead, letting the case go cold.

“What’s new?” Greg asked. Neither he nor Sally commented on the fact it had mysteriously surfaced in their stack of cases.

“Anonymous tip called in. Apparently she was seen in Ilford a couple of hours after practice.”

“Ilford.” Greg flipped quickly to the girl’s home address. “That’s the opposite side of town to where she lived.”

“Or where her Kendo lesson was.” Sally frowned and nibbled on her pen.

“We’ll need to find out whether she had any reason to be over there. Might’ve had a friend or someone, but it’s not likely.”

“Parents?” Sally drew a division on the page and started a new note.

“Parents.” Greg confirmed. “And one of us’ll need to review the reports in detail.

Sally nodded and kept writing as Greg put the folder away and grabbed the next one from the stack.

“John Doe.” Greg frowned as he pulled the file closer.

Sally pursed her lips and stabbed her pen into the page for the full stop. The John Doe scene was the one Greg had ended up throwing Sherlock off. It was not only difficult, it was highly emotional.

“Have we got anything?” Greg asked, totally resigned. “When are we getting the fingerprint report?”

Sally ran a hand through her hair. “Nothing and ‘as soon as possible.’”

“Well I’ll put that in my email as well.” Greg scrawled a note on his hand.

So far there were no missing persons reports that matched their corpse’s description, but all that meant was that he hadn’t been reported missing in the last week. Matching the case to the older records took time, time Greg didn’t have personally. He’d commandeered two DCs to trawl through the records, but they weren’t able to start until that afternoon. Until the fingerprint report came through they wouldn’t know if he was in the database for any priors or have any clue as to his identity.

“Do we have the pathology report?”

Sally gave him a look and Greg let the file fall to the desk with a thump.

“Thought not.”

There were no cameras in the area that would be any use, and the few neighbours who had opened their doors and not slammed them into the uniforms’ faces hadn’t been willing or able to say anything useful.

They needed Sherlock, but having kicked him off for bad behaviour Greg couldn’t bring him back without condoning the same, assuming Sherlock would even deign to look at it. When it came to pride, Sherlock was pricklier than an Alpha.

“I’ll try and get something from forensics.” Greg volunteered. “We need to get an ID to even know where to start.”

“Have they done a DNA search?” Sally asked.

“I hadn’t requested it.” Greg sighed. “They prefer to fingerprint first, you know that, but I’ll ask for that instead of any tests for the Robinson case yet. Given the circumstances he died under he just might have been arrested before.”

“Thankfully we haven’t destroyed all the samples yet.” Sally muttered darkly.

Greg left the comment alone. The decision of the European Court of Human Rights was as polarising among police services as the football was the general public.

“We’ll have to comb through the neighbours reports and crime scene shots again. See if there’s anything we’ve missed.”

Sally added ‘complete review’ to her list. Greg shuffled the case to the side and picked up the next folder.

“Oh, the assault at Stuart Street.”

“We wanted to speak to the Uncle.” Sally drew her line and started the next note.

“Yeah, and he should’ve arrived back,” Greg flipped back through his scrawled notes, “yesterday.”

“Need to speak to him in the next day or so then.” Sally sighed. “Hope he knows more about the kid than his parents did.”

“He was apparently close to the uncle. Well, is, I suppose. He’s in a coma, not dead.” Greg spoke around his pen. Chewing on pens had become his substitute for smoking.

“Then why didn’t he cut his trip short.” Sally asked icily.

Greg didn’t disagree with her.

“Might be something to ask Mr Carson when we talk to him.”

They talked through the couple of remaining open cases, debated a few theories and listed a couple of further tests for the forensic services lab to conduct, especially as for one case they had already arrested a suspect who was remanded in custody.

Eventually Greg sat back with a sigh and rubbed his eyes. They’d been at this for two hours, and it was still only just peaking quarter past nine.

“Coffee?” Sally asked, working the kinks out of her neck.

“Tea, unless you’re going out of the station.”

“That posh stuff your friend’s got ruined you for an honest cup of coffee has it, Sir?” Sally teased good naturedly. Greg mocked glared at her and she held up her hands in surrender. “Tea it is.”

It was good to see her smile as she walked out of the room. Between Greg’s mood swings and the latest debacle with Anderson it seemed like it had been too long. Ordinarily he’d take her down the pub, maybe with a few other DIs and Sergeants and have a good night to take her mind off things, but that wasn’t really an option now that he was meant to be saving money.

Absently rubbing his shoulder, Greg watched the hustle and bustle of the Yard. Groups collected then broke apart after morning greetings or information was passed on. Uniforms carried boxes of files in and out. Inspectors consulted with sergeants, length of interaction varying from brief conversations to detailed conferences. A couple of people threw glares at each other and tilted their chins aggressively as they moved quickly past each other. Dimmock could be seen yelling down his phone, clearly frustrated about something.

Sally arrived back with the tea, shutting the door to Greg’s office firmly behind her. Her gait over to the desk was stiff and her face painted a careful neutral.

Greg accepted his tea without comment. Whether she’d run into Anderson or Weatherly or was just self-conscious because her private life was so openly being played out at work, it was only his business if she made it so. Until she said something, he’d keep his peace just as she had done for him.

“So today’s plan?” She asked as she settled back into the chair.

“Why don’t you take the Robinson case, talk to the bartender and see about that footage. He liked the look of you last time, suspect you’d get more than me.”

Greg left unspoken that it would also get her away from the station and reduce the potential for any accidental run ins with Anderson to zero. It was true, after all, the bartender had been watching Sally out of the corner of his eye the entire time Greg had been trying to interview him. The Sub had clearly wished the straws had been drawn the other way and Greg had been interviewing the DJ instead.

“Can do.” Sally starred those items on her list.

“I’ll talk to forensics,” that had to come from him anyway to have any weight worth thinking about, “and the constables are going to start trawling for missing persons this afternoon, I’ll need to look in on them.

“Why don’t,” Greg rearranged things in his head, “we both head out to the uncle now, then I’ll come back and review the Peterson case, see if I can catch the parents this afternoon. That’ll let me check how they’re going with the missing persons. You can chase up the Bartender and surveillance footage, then meet me for the Parents if you’re done.”

“Sounds good, Sir.”

Neither of them mentioned that this allowed Greg to go to Susie Peterson’s parents via Sherlock, and that they’d maybe have some new leads before they even got to the interview.

“In that case,” Sally eyed her coffee with an expression of distaste, “how about we dump this and get some proper stuff on the way.”

“Well,” Greg hesitated.

“Come on, Sir, my shout.” Sally stood up. “You dispose of these, I’ll grab my coat.”

Greg sent her a mock salute and received a mock glare in return.

Disposing of the mugs had to wait because once Sally had ducked out, Anderson slunk in with the fingerprint report for John Doe. Greg skimmed the findings, nada, and sent him off again with orders for a DNA search and the other forensic requests he otherwise had to email through.

Why Anderson had felt the need to hand deliver a report not from his section Greg didn’t question, not after the snarky comment about Sally hiding away from the office. Greg had offered to let Anderson accompany Sally to the interviews instead of Greg himself and watched the other Alpha frantically back pedal, citing workloads and Greg’s DNA testing. He’d clearly come over to talk to Sally, maybe even to apologise, and had his courage fail on him.

Sympathetic as Greg was to their position and the issues Anderson was struggling with, he really was starting to wish they’d give up trying. Sally really could do better and it was becoming increasingly obvious that no matter how much he wanted to, Anderson couldn’t give it to her.

Sally was waiting in the car, though she didn’t say anything until after Greg had pulled out of the car park.

“Anything useful?”

It wasn’t quite ‘What did he want?’, but only because Sally did try to be professional.

“Fingerprint report.” Greg sighed. “Nothing so far. I’ve asked for DNA, but-”

“But if he was on record we’d have fingerprints. Familial search?”

“Yeah, but it’ll take months and we have nothing.”

“You can’t go to him.” Sally shot him a sharp look.

“I know.” Greg dug his fingers into the steering wheel. “Doesn’t mean I want to let it go cold.”

“We might have to.” Sally looked out the window, her mouth curled into a dissatisfied grimace.

“I know.” Greg took off from the lights slightly harder than was required.

“Hey,” Sally patted his knee. “We’ll find something. We always do.”

“I hope you’re right.”

The glaring problem was normally that something they found was given to them by Sherlock.

The uncle was upset about the attack on his nephew; perfectly so. Greg couldn’t say what it was about the whole situation, but something about it bothered him.

“What do you think?” He asked back in the car. Sally was driving this time.

“It was a very reasonable explanation.” Sally replied neutrally.

“Very.” Greg drummed his fingers on the console.

“It is understandable that he didn’t come back from a very important business conference in Scotland when he’d already been told everything over the phone and all he could do was hold his nephew’s hand and weep by his bed.”

“Sergeant Donovan, I do believe you’re becoming something of a cynic.”

“After four and a half years with you Sir, most would say it’s overdue.”

“Oi, what are you trying to say?”

“Nothing, Sir.” She grinned as she turned the key in the ignition and eased out into traffic. “Nothing at all.”


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas! 
> 
> Hope you're all spending the day in whatever tradition suits you best.

Sally dropped him in front of the Yard and continued on to the bartender’s home address. Greg hurried inside and caught his two constables by the arms just before Gregson tried to assign them something to do. Resisting the urge to stick out his tongue, Greg handed them the copies of their John Doe’s details and sent them over to missing persons to begin the long slow hunt through the records, just in case.

“Bugger off, Lestrade. I wasn’t done with them.” Gregson complained, leaning outside Greg’s office door.

Gregson was the only other DI in Serious Crimes who had an office, the other most senior inspector and the Alpha most likely to challenge Greg. He hadn’t, yet, and wouldn’t, Greg hoped, but Gregson wasn’t happy whenever Greg appeared to be going up in the world.

“I had them booked and that task of yours will take them a week.” Greg returned fire without any guilt.

“And yours won’t? Come off it Lestrade, it’s just another unidentified corpse. I’ve got a dead banker from one of the trading banks. I need someone to check through the records.”

“Check them yourself.” Greg threw a couple of scrap pieces of paper in the recycling.

“I’m not reviewing his phone records for the last year myself. I’ve got other cases.” Gregson scowled in the doorway.

“So do I.” Greg pointed out reasonably.

“Sir.” Someone called from out in the pen.

Gregson growled and left, heading over to Johnson, a newly promoted and very eager sergeant.

Greg gave an internal sigh of relief, but didn’t let it show externally. He’d learnt a long time ago not to show even the slightest sign of weakness at the Yard in case it was noticed.

Right then, the Peterson case.

He quickly read through the background information and then dove into the forensic reports that had been provided. There was very little in there, and certainly nothing to explain why she’d been half a city away from where she was meant to be.

Tapping the papers back into the file, he collected his coat and scarf, again, and headed out the door, stopping quickly to poke his head in on his researchers and check they hadn’t been illicitly appropriated by Gregson. They hadn’t been, and Greg continued on his way to the tube. It was several stops before he realised he’d forgotten to stop and reheat his lasagne, let alone eat it.

Resigning himself to an empty stomach, he trod the last few steps to Baker St and let himself in the front door.

“Greg, hi, come in.” John answered the knock on the entry way to the flat proper and stood back to let Greg inside. “You look tired.”

“Yeah, cause you’re looking peachy yourself.”

John laughed and ran his fingers through his hair. “Well, it was a long night.”

“Everything alright now?” Greg collapsed down in one of the arm chairs.

“Yeah, it is.” John clicked the kettle on without even asking. “You were right, it helps knowing that we’re both in the same place.”

“Say that again? Louder, I didn’t quite-”

“Shut up.” John grinned at him.

“Nah, it’s good to hear. He around?”

John let out a dry laugh. “Nope, ran out this morning.”

“Surprised you let him out.” Greg wasn’t quite teasing. John had seemed so easy going, but then last night...

“After twenty two fingers, an assorted allotment of toes and a salad spinner worth of ears appeared in the fridge this morning, all properly packaged and labelled, but on the body part free shelves, I didn’t really want to ask when Molly called about 65-natural causes, 22-suspected overdose, and 34-unknown. If I’m unlucky there’ll be another head by the end of the day.”

“Punishing you is he?” Greg didn’t both hiding his rather wicked smile.

“In his own way, yeah, looks like it.” John smiled back.

“Told you he wasn’t a push over.”

“Never thought he was.” John poured the water and dunked the tea bags.

Greg waited in satisfied anticipation of the completion of John’s task: two coffees and now a decent cup of tea. It must have shown a bit on his face because John’s grin was even wider as he handed the mug over.

“Oh shush.” Greg breathed in the heady scent of a decent caffeinated tea.

“Would you like me to leave you alone with that?” John teased.

“How was your hangover?” Greg parried.

John collapsed into his chair with his own groan. “You just had to get me drunk didn’t you?”

“You seemed like you needed it.” Greg shrugged.

They both took sips of their drinks.

“Last night,” Greg asked suddenly. “How much of what you said was-”

“True?” John sighed and balanced the mug on the arm of the chair. “All of it’s true, but I wouldn’t say it the same way while sober. I was rather miserable last night. And drunk.”

He gave Greg a withering glare. Greg shrugged and didn’t apologise.

“I’ll tell you one thing though, I’m starting to really wish Holmes Senior was alive.” John muttered darkly over the rim of his tea cup before tossing the biscuit packet to Greg.

“So you could kill him?” Greg asked, extracting one of the offered custard cream. “Been having similar thoughts myself.”

“I don’t like it, Greg. The more I find out about their childhood, the more it seems-”

“Wrong, problematic.”

Abusive.

John nodded. “Sherlock couldn’t give a stuff about what ‘good Omegas’ are meant to do, but was convinced that if he wasn’t capable of having children I’d leave.”

“Haven’t you heard John, that’s all Omegas are good for.” Greg let out all the bitterness in to the phrase he could muster, and that was quite a lot. There was never going to be a more sympathetic ear than this one.

A tic appeared in John’s neck.

“I wonder,” he mused out loud, “what happens when that’s your attitude and you have two Omega sons who have no interest in being good little brood mares.”

“I don’t really want to think about it.”

“Neither.” John sighed and slumped back. “I’m this close to finding his grave so I can do _something_ to it as it is.”

“You and Sherlock are going to keep trying though?”

“Do Bonded pairs ever really stop trying?” John asked rhetorically. “We’ll take it a day at a time, try and get some meat on his bones. That’ll help quite a bit. If that doesn’t work then, then we’ll go see about some professional help. It’s not like Sherlock doesn’t have the money for it.”

“Getting that impression, yeah. Have you seen that house? Properly, I mean. They have statues of _horse armour_ in the dining room, John, _horse armour_.”

“Seriously?” John whistled.

“It’s mad. I feel a bit like I’m living in a museum.” Greg drained his mug and accepted more custard creams.

Custard creams were also on Mrs Potts’s unauthorised list.

“How is that working out for you?” John asked.

“Fine, yeah, good.”

“I find that hard to believe.” John sounded more than a little sceptical.

The automatic twinge of anger was not unexpected to Greg, though the strength of his reaction was.

“I’m not commenting on your relationship,” John held up a hand placating before Greg could form the words he wanted to snap, “but moving in with a Holmes is never as simple as ‘fine, yeah, good’. Mycroft might not keep body parts in the fridge, but I’m sure he’s got his own quirks.”

Mollified slightly, Greg eyed John over his empty mug. “Don’t we all?”

“Holmeses are worse.” John replied automatically. “God knows I love Sherlock to pieces, but it would be nice not to have to worry about waking up to find pieces of unidentified meat in the bathtub.”

“You haven’t stopped him though. You could.” Greg felt obliged to point out.

“Yes, yes that’s true, and no I haven’t.” John agreed. “You’ve already made your point. I’m not the big bad Alpha I think I am.”

“Well it’s a bit much of you to claim you’re some kind of special case. You’re not the only strong Alpha out there and they manage.”

“As I said, point taken.” John continued to regard him, tea mug tapping idly on his leg as he attempted to pick apart Greg’s responses and work out which nerve he’d hit and why.

Doctors! All the same.

“Sorry, didn’t sleep well.” Greg rubbed absently at his forehead.

John’s gaze softened, becoming less Sherlock and more John.

“It’s a fair enough statement.” John held out his hand for the empty mug. “Another?”

Greg did a quick review of the number of cups he’d already consumed, and then decided stuff it, he was still tired and John made good tea.

“Since you’re making.” He passed over the mug.

“So are things alright?” John called from the kitchen as he refilled the kettle. “Moving, baby, work, whole bit.”

“There are things.” Greg admitted. “Mycroft’s a fridge Nazi, no leftovers whatsoever... And Mrs Potts is worse. There are lists, actual physical lists, of food that’s not allowed inside the house because it’s not good for the baby.”

“Mrs Potts?” There was rustling as John fetched down another packet of custard creams from the Food Only cupboard.

“Housekeeper at the main estate. She comes down to check on Mycroft and do his cleaning.”

“Seriously?” John’s expression was delighted astonishment.

“Seriously. Used to be just a couple of days a month, but the rate she’s going now she might as well move in.”

“Well, there you go.” John dunked the tea bags and left them to brew.

“Bit different to what I’m used to. Still feels a bit surreal.” Greg pushed up out of his chair and walked over to the fridge, intending to be useful and fetch the milk.

“Best not.” John blocked his way. “Ears, thumbs and other assorted phalanges, remember?”

Hands held up in surrender, Greg let John extract the milk (emblazoned with ‘John’s milk, No Experiments, That Means You, Sherlock!’ in thick black pen) and return it to the fridge once he’d poured. Sometimes it really was best not to look.

“How’s Mycroft coping with the pregnancy? Everything progressing well?” John handed over the mug and snared the custard creams as they returned to the armchairs.

“Um, yeah, it’s um, it’s fine.”

“Just over four months, so foetus’d be, what, 14 cm roughly?”

“Uh, yeah, sounds right.”

John set down his mug on the arm. “You haven’t been going to the obstetrician appointments have you?”

“Uh, no.” Greg took a while to remember that obstetrician meant baby doctor.

“Has Mycroft?” John sounded worried. “He’s old to be having a first child, especially unsupervised.”

“No, no, yes, he’s been seeing someone. I assume.”

“You assume?” John arched an eyebrow, a trick he’d developed on a long and boring stakeout.

Greg had been relieved teaching John the correct muscular exercises to enable this expression had kept Sherlock entertained. He wasn’t so glad now it was being used on him.

“I didn’t think to ask.” Greg mumbled into his tea. “He must be, he has a doctor after all. He’s not stupid.”

“And he hasn’t talked to you about it at all?”

Greg shrugged. “It’s not like I could go to the appointments with him. We’re trying to keep it secret after all.”

“True.” John took a mouthful of tea. “Ask him for the ultrasound pictures, he should already have some of those. There’s usually a scan done sometime at the start of the second trimester.”

Greg nodded absently, mind racing. He’d been so caught up in trying to navigate the emotional and physical elements of their new relationship that thoughts of the baby as more than an abstract and future concept had fallen by the wayside.

Ultrasound pictures, Mycroft would have seen their baby and Greg, who _should_ have been there to share that moment with him, _hadn’t_ been. Who had been? Mycroft and the doctor, or had She been there as well?

That morning had been the first time he’d even been made aware Mycroft was suffering from morning sickness. Shouldn’t that have settled down already? Josephine had stopped vomiting once she was out of the first trimester, though she had remained sensitive to certain smells. What was Mycroft sensitive to? He’d obviously been throwing up in the mornings while Greg was out running and oblivious.

What were his cravings? Did he have cravings?

“Here.” John held out a plain plastic bag.

It was heavy with several books inside. _What to Expect When You’re Expecting_ , _Baby Boy: A Guide to Omega Pregnancy_ , _101 Things School Failed to Teach You About Heat and Pregnancy_.

Greg looked up at John questioningly.

“Figured you’d probably forgotten everything Health class tried to teach you.” John lowered himself back into his chair. “Picked those up for you a couple of weeks ago. Not exactly suspicious for me to do so, a little strange for you.”

“I, uh, thanks.” Greg lay the bag down on the floor. He’d have to read through those, get a better grip on what was happening and what he could do to help.

John nodded and fidgeted a little in his chair.

“You know Greg,” he said, “if you have any questions, you can ask. Me.”

“Oh, no, I,” Greg flushed bright pink at the thought of asking John some of the questions he had.

“Really Greg,” John urged, using what Greg had dubbed the brisk ‘I’m a professional’ voice. “Anything, just ask. I assure you, between med school, the army and general practice, there’s very little I haven’t heard or seen, and I’ve definitely been told stories of worse.”

Greg blushed more.

“Really. I was on A&E rotation in med school and this couple were brought in. They were stuck together. Intimately.”

“No.”

“Yes. Apparently he had a piercing and...” John trailed off meaningfully.

“Oh Jesus.” Greg winced.

“Exactly. That’s a mild example. I have removed you don’t want to know what from you don’t want to know where, listened to all ends of sexual confessions, and had to answer the ‘is it meant to look like that/ be that colour’ question. If there’s something you need to know, just ask.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Greg‘s hand flapped for his case file. If Sherlock wasn’t here he really should go before-

“How often is, I mean, not that I’m no-” Greg shut his mouth with a snap as his brain caught up with what his mouth was asking. “You know what, forget that.”

“It varies, assuming you’re trying to ask me how much sex is usual during pregnancy.” John sent Greg a small smirk before lapsing back into his Dr Watson persona. “It’s a common question. The answer changes Omega to Omega, but the general answer is a lot.”

John looked entirely calm sipping tea in his chair. It was entirely unfair because Greg felt ready to vibrate out of his skin with embarrassment.

“Really?” He squeaked.

“Really.” John’s smile was a quiet professional one this time. “Pregnancy is regulated by the same hormones which cause Estrus, just in different levels and relative proportions. It’s another reason most Alphas love it when their Omegas are pregnant. Not only is there the pat on the back to their macho pride, their Omegas are close to insatiable for nine months and require significantly less prep before penetration.”

“Significantly less...” Greg trailed off, blushing so hard he was beginning to feel dizzy.

“Cops, the same as soldiers you lot. Put you in a pub with a beer and you’ll brag in excruciatingly explicit detail, but try to talk about sex and other bodily functions in a proper serious conversation and you’re all mortified.” John shook his head. “Yes, less prep before penetrative sex, which it mostly is during pregnancy. As I said, similar to Estrus. That doesn’t mean you can dispense with the preparation and lube all together, but you won’t need as much or to reapply.”

“Oh.” Greg took a large mouthful of tea. “Is it, um, safe?”

“I won’t ask exactly what you’re doing because I just do not want to know, but given you’re in the unique situation where Mycroft’s the Dom, I doubt there’s much you need to worry about.” John reached for and ate a custard cream. “Anything else?”

“Um, no, that should be. I’ll just read,” Greg held up the books.

The lower door slammed shut and thundering steps could be heard bounding up to 221B accented by Mrs Hudson’s chiding bird-like voice as Sherlock disturbed her morning shows.

“Oh thank Christ.” Greg grabbed the case file and held it protectively in front of him, ignoring John’s well natured chuckle.

“John, you’ll be here this afternoon, won’t you? Molly’s going to deliver- hello Lestrade.” Sherlock strolled into the room, removing his gloves.

John gave a long suffering sigh. “Is there going to be room in the fridge for food?”

“Yes, of course. Maybe. We can get takeaway.” Sherlock dismissed the problem with a flick of his fingers and swirled his coat off his shoulders.

Strolling over to John he plonked down on his knees and gently nuzzled his neck.

“Tea.”

“Kettle’s in the kitchen. I’ve got mine.” John held up his mug in demonstration.

“Tea!” Sherlock demanded again, ceasing to nuzzle into his Dom since it had failed to elicit the appropriate reaction and poking John instead.

“And what’s the magic word?” John teased, remaining firmly in his seat.

Everyone in the room knew John would go make the tea. It was just a matter of how much Sherlock had to work for it.

“Now.” Sherlock replied with a glare.

“Not quite.” John coughed through his mouthful of tea.

“But you’ll get it anyway.” Sherlock challenged.

“Yes, you beautiful ingrate, I’ll get your tea.”

Satisfied, Sherlock rose and threw himself bodily on the couch, shoes knocked off and toes kneading against the leather end.

“Lestrade, file.” Sherlock held out his hand imperiously.

With a sigh, Greg handed it over.

“All the physical exhibits are at the Yard, but that’s a copy of the paper documents.”

“What’s new?” Sherlock demanded, flipping through pages more quickly than he could possibly be reading them. “Six months old and not one of yours originally, what’s new?”

“Anonymous tip that she was seen in Ilford after she went missing.” Greg cracked his neck “I’m going to talk to the parents after this.”

“Mmm.” Sherlock hummed, perusing one of the reports in more detail.

John left the tea on the floor by his elbow.

“I’ll take it.” Sherlock snapped the file shut and picked up his tea. “It may prove to be some distraction.”

“Hey, you can’t keep that, and I wanted to talk to the parents today.” Greg protested.

“It’s been six months. Another 24 hours is hardly going to make a difference at this stage.” Sherlock waved dismissively.

“Bit not good, Sherlock.” John called from the kitchen.

He emerged again with a sandwich on a plate which was shoved into Sherlock’s hands.

“Case John, I don’t eat when I’m working.” Sherlock pushed it away.

“You do now, remember?” John pushed the plate back quietly.

“Oh. Yes.” Sherlock looked slightly stunned, but picked up half the sandwich and began to eat.

The heavy silence that fell was only broken by Sherlock’s chewing and the clatter of dishes as John cleaned up in the kitchen.

“Right well, I should then...” Greg got up to leave just as his phone rang. “Hello, Donovan... really?... that’s interesting. I’ll head back to the Yard. Have the tech guys double check the footage... Flatmate, yeah, meet you at the Yard.” Greg hung up. “Sorry ‘bout that, something else may have actually panned out. By tomorrow, Sherlock.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and took another bite of sandwich.

“See you, John.” Greg called, heading out the door with his bag of books.

Greg detoured on his way back to the Yard, stopping briefly at the house to drop the books in his room. The last thing he needed was to get caught with a bag full of baby books at the Yard.

Donovan had dropped the footage with the AV Unit and somehow cajoled or bullied them into playing it for her then rather than whenever they got around to it.

“Sir.”

She didn’t take her eyes off the screen as he walked in.

“Nothing so far.” Sally pursed her lips a more people filed past the bouncer on fast forward.

“But?”

Sally handed over her notebook, her official one with her notes from her conversation with Clive the bartender. “It may be nothing, but the description of the Sub sounded familiar. Still waiting to see if I’m right.”

“You said on the phone.” Greg  scanned the description. “It does sound a lot like Carson, but there are a lot of slender brunette Beta Subs out there.”

“Birthmark on his wrist.” Sally pointed further down the page, eyes still glued to the running footage.

“Unusual, certainly suggestive.” Greg was reluctant to commit to hope too quickly.

“Stop!” Sally barked out, finger resting on the screen.

One of the tech guys glared at her, clearly wanting to remove the offending appendage from his precious equipment, but she ignored him.

“Well, well, well, Peter Carson. Good eyes, Donovan.” Greg tapped her notebook idly on the bench. “Could be a coincidence, but I’m not fond of coincidences where both parties to a conversation end up on my desk.”

“Flatmate?” Sally grinned at him.

“Flatmate.” Greg handed back the notebook.

On the way out of the station Greg checked on the constables again (still there, still working) and thought longingly of the lunch he hadn’t yet eaten as they tried to talk around takeaway pizza. He warned them not to get any on the records and left them to it.

Sally was once again waiting in the car, texting at a rate of knots. From the look on her face Anderson had decided to text through his apology and it had been found lacking.

“So theories?” Greg asked once she’d put her phone down.

“Well, we know Carson and Robinson were at the same club, Robinson was stabbed and two days later Carson was assaulted and almost killed. We know they spoke... And that’s about all we know.” Sally drummed her fingers against the armrest.

“Do we think Robinson was interested in Carson?” Greg took a left as the chirpy GPS instructed.

“He’s not exactly his type.” Sally sounded doubtful.

“Carson’s Dom may not have known that. Maybe you were right with the poaching.” The freeway was no faster than the normal streets, but Greg dutifully sped up the on ramp as the GPS instructed.

“Except neither his parents nor his uncle mentioned a Dom. Nor did his flatmate, though he wasn’t in a good state last time we spoke to him.” Sally pointed out.

“So we’re back to drug deal gone wrong, and Carson as our mysterious murderer, in which case who did him, or a coincidence where we just happen to have two vics from different ends of town and different walks of life having a brief conversation and being attacked within two days of each other.” Greg shook his head. “I don’t like that.”

“We did say the wound could have come from a male Sub. Maybe Robinson broke his pattern and came onto the kid and he said no, forcefully when he had to.”

“Maybe.” Greg tapped his finger on the wheel in time to the radio.

“Didn’t seem like the impression of Carson from people we’ve spoken to so far, Sir.”

Greg sighed. “No, it doesn’t. The drug angle doesn’t sit well either.”

“Just means we’re missing something.” Sally stubbornly gazed out the window.

“Aren’t we always?” Greg asked rhetorically.

It took another half an hour on the freeway, then 15 minutes navigating side streets before they found themselves outside the flat Carson had shared with another Beta Sub, Sampson Marshall.

The young uni student was home and Greg had to wonder whether he’d been out of the flat since his friend had ended up in hospital.

“DI Lestrade, this is DS Donovan, we’d like to ask you some more questions about Peter Carson if you don’t mind.” Greg and Sally both showed their Ids.

“You’re the ones from the hospital.” The young Sub opened the door wide to allow them past. “Come in.”

“Surprised you remember. You weren’t in the best shape, Mr Marshall.” Greg pulled his gloves off and stuffed them into his pockets.

“Sam, please. Mr Marshall’s my Da and Sampson’s a character in stories.” He gestured for them to sit and they did, taking the couch so Sam had plenty of spaces to choose from. “What do you want to know?”

“Can you start by going over the night for us again?” Greg asked.

Sally pulled out her pen and sat quietly, ready to write down anything new.

“Yeah, yeah, sure. Um, we’d gone out for dinner, met a few friends at the Pub. I suppose you’ll want names won’t you? Ricky Garmon, Sonia Westbury, Azir Fitzhubert, yeah everyone gets a laugh at that one, and Mabel, Mabel Tompkins.” Same gave a wistful smile. “Mabel, Azir and I have comps whenever we meet up, see who can get the most double takes on our names. Azir always wins. Nothing shocking about Sampson or Mabel, even if they are a little old fashioned. Az won’t let us just play on first names. Knows he wouldn’t win without the shock factor.”

Greg gave him a sympathetic smile. 

“Long way to go for dinner.” Sally commented.

“Mabel and Azir live the other side, and Ricky’s way out so it’s easier for him to head into the centre.” Sam clasped his hands together and then rested them on his knee.

Sally nodded and pretended to make a note on her pad. The movement prompted Sam to go on.

“We walked a bit after dinner, dropped Ricky at the interchange, then the others headed off too. We’d driven in that night, so we headed to the car.” His voice trailed off. “I had to go back and get it the next day.”

“What happened on the walk back?” Greg prompted.

“We, we were almost back at the car when Pete thought he saw something. He told me to wait and second and jogged down the street... I, after ten minutes I was tired of waiting so went after him and...” Sam’s hands were clenching and unclenching in his lap. “I almost went passed him. He, he was lying there on the ground and ...”

Greg sent his best comforting look the kid’s way. If he’d been closer he might have tried a comforting hand, but the distance he was sitting from Sam it would have involved standing to move closer, something that was unlikely to be reassuring.

“I called for an ambulance, and I tried, I tried to...”

“You did well. You kept him alive while the ambulance came. You did well.” Sally could move closer and did, gently patting Sam’s arm.

It was one of the reasons Greg was more than happy to have a female Sergeant. Even as a Dom, Sally was regarded as less threatening by the general population than he was, and could do things like this that Greg couldn’t.

“He, they don’t know if he’ll wake up.” Sam pressed his hands together hard enough to turn his knuckles white. “I shouted and shouted for help, but no one stopped. We were in a little alley and a couple of people looked down and then hurried off, but no one stopped.”

Sam’s voice broke and he looked up at Greg with pleading eyes. “Why did no one stop?”

Greg hated when the people surrounding the victims asked questions like that. Why my friend/lover/partner? Why did no one see/help/stop?

“Because they were scared, the same way you were.” Greg leant forward, catching and maintaining Sam’s gaze. “Because humans are flawed.”

The truth was that people had probably thought it was a drug deal gone wrong, the way they’d been tucked down that dingy alley. The PCs on the scene had certainly thought so until they’d all arrived at the hospital and Sam had stammered out enough of his story to convince them otherwise.

“We’re going to do our best to find who did this, Sam, I promise.” Greg was careful not to promise to find them. That was a promise he’d made and broken before and would prefer not to do again.

“Are you able to answer some more questions?” Greg continued. 

Sam nodded. Greg sent Sally and quick look and she took over the questioning.

“Have you and Peter ever been to a place called Illusion before?” She moved back to sit slightly further away, though not on the couch again.

Sam looked confused. “A couple of times, on and off. It wasn’t a favourite. The music’s better at Glam and if we’re all the way over there we’re usually meeting Mabel, Az, Son and Ricky so we go to Fusion.”

“Have you been there lately? Or do you know if Peter has?”

They knew the answers to these questions, but it was always best to ask.

“Um, uh.” Sam blinked as he tried to think back. “Not recently, I don’t think.”

“So Peter wasn’t there about a week ago?” Sally pressed.

Sam blinked again. “I don’t _think_ so, unless... he was out with a whole pile of university mates last Thursday. They may have gone to Illusion.”

“You weren’t with them?” Greg asked.

Sam shook his head. “I don’t get on with them. The Subs are alright, but Mark and Ryan are real arsehole Doms. I had a test the next day so I begged off. Why? Is this relevant?”

“It may be. Did Peter have a Dom he was close to, maybe someone he was looking at making an arrangement with?”

“No one.” Same shook his head. “Az used to tease him about becoming a monk he was so celibate. He was always shy around Doms, always blushed and backed away. Could barely even look at an Alpha.”

“And there was no one he was interested in, or who was interested in him?” Sally asked.

“No.” Sam shook his head then paused. “Well, there were some flowers delivered to the door, but neither of us knew who they were for. Wrong address, you know. Or Pete said he didn’t know…. But I suppose when I think about it, he smiled, when he saw them.”

“Anything else? Phone calls, mysterious or otherwise?”

“Sorry, couldn’t tell you. We don’t have a home line, we just use our mobiles and between work and uni and other friends...” Sam shrugged.

Greg and Sally shared a quick look.

“Then if you wouldn’t mind giving us the details of the friends Peter was with last Thursday we’ll get out of your hair.” Greg smiled as he stood, knees cracking loudly.

“Ah, sure.”

Greg didn’t bother to listen to the details Sam provided, trusting Sally to record them. Instead he looked around the room, taking in the items that spoke to the flatmates’ personalities.

According to his parents, Peter Carson was a troublemaker, a wild boy out of control. To his uncle he was troubled, a home boy from a broken home, still gentle, still kind, just lost. To his flatmate he was a good friend, shy, studious.

The picture in front of Greg showed Carson and four others: two boys and two girls, presumably Mabel, Sonia, Ricky and Azir. He was dressed in tight jeans, a loose light blue shirt and a leather jacket, brown hair half-heartedly spiked. He looked like he was trying to be tough, doomed to fall short with large baby blue eyes and a too friendly smile.

“That was Rick’s birthday.” Sam came up next to Greg. “Last year. We ended up out at Hounslow Heath, no idea how or why, just cause we could.”

“Best kind of night.” Greg turned. “Thanks for your help, Sam.”

Sam opened the door for them. “Anything.”

With a parting handshake they left, squishing along the narrow corridor.

“Inspector!” Sam called. He looked unnaturally small in the doorway. “You will catch them, whoever did this?”

“We’ll do our best.” Greg promised.

He sighed as he collapsed into the car. Lazily he chucked the keys Sally’s way and she caught them with a roll of her eyes. It was her turn to drive.

“We need to speak to Carson’s buddies who were at the club with him and we need his phone.” Greg sighed.

“Probably best to get a warrant for the phone, Sir. He’s still alive.”

“Great, just great. Why do I get the feeling I’m going to be in charge of the warrant?”

Sally grinned and turned onto the freeway. “Hospital might just give you his effects if you ask.”

“I want this case perfect for when it goes to court. No short cuts on this one.”

Sally nodded in agreement. They sat in silence as the car sped down the road.

“How long do you think you’ll need to chase down the uni kids?” Greg eventually asked.

“Not long.” Sally overtook a car doing well under the speed limit. “Sam said they should all be in class, so I’ll head over and catch them on campus.”

“Drop me back at the Yard.” Greg sighed. “Call when you’re done.”

“How long do you think the warrant will take?”

The car next to them attempted to change lanes without looking and Sally leant on the horn. The silver BMW swerved back and the driver blared his horn in response.

“Bloody Alpha drivers.” Sally muttered.

Greg didn’t disagree.

Walking back into the Yard Greg was briefly accosted by Mulgrave and asked where he’d been, but the DCI backed down when Greg said he’d been with Sally doing interviews. Apparently he still wasn’t trusted by senior management, a fact Greg had resigned himself to, but it would have been nice if his DCI had at least been on his side.

Back at his desk Greg tore through the paper work required for the warrant for Peter Carson’s effects, phone and phone records. Technically he could just collect Carson’s clothing and phone, technically he could use them as evidence, but if this was connected to the Robinson case Greg didn’t want any legal grey areas hanging over the trial. Neither the case nor Greg could afford it.

Sally’s phone call caught him leaving the Magistrate’s office, signed warrant tucked into his jacket pocket.

“Donovan?”

“Where are you, Sir?”

“Getting the warrant authorised. Heading back to the station now. How’re the interviews?”

“One more to go. Adam Hastings didn’t show today and hasn’t been seen for the last three.”

“Huh, always suspicious.”

“Beta Dom and apparently a bit of a gym junkie. Could easily have the strength to knock Carson over the head and kill Robinson.”

“The others?” Greg asked, pausing to pull his gloves on.

“Nothing interesting. They all alibi out for the attack on Carson and half of them don’t even recall him talking to Robinson. Tell you more when I get back?”

“Sounds good.” Greg caught a glimpse of his watch and resigned himself to not getting home on time.

True to his thoughts, he was, finally, eating his re-heated lasagne when Sally arrived back at six.

“Well?” He mumbled around a mouthful.

Sally dropped into the chair opposite with a sigh and a grimace.

“Adam Hastings is legitimately at home, sick with the chicken pox that he apparently failed to contract as a child. He’s almost certainly not our suspect given that Carson is 5ft 11’’ and Robinson if 6ft 2’’. I’m no expert, but I think pathology is going to say our culprit was taller than 5ft 3’’.

“Yeah, probably.” Greg winced.

Sally pulled out her notebook. “The others confirm they were at the club. A few of them were able to ID Robinson as the man who spoke to Carson. None of them know what he said, just that it was something as Carson was coming back from the bar. Carson laughed it off and Robinson didn’t come near him again.”

“So we’ve got nothing.” Greg leant back in his chair and stared up at the ceiling.

“Adam did say that Carson was nervy the rest of the night.” Sally offered.

“Yeah, cause that’s useful.” Greg shovelled another fork full of lasagne into his mouth.

“The only other thing of any note was they all agreed that Carson was wearing way too much aftershave that night.”

Greg gave her a sceptical look.

“Must’ve been pretty strong for five people to comment on it.” Sally buried her nose in her notebook.

“Phone records are still coming.” Greg swallowed. “In my inbox, but haven’t sorted through yet. Phone’s in the box, rest still needs to be logged.”

“That’s the next job? Phone records?” Sally pulled the phone over. “Do we know what the passcode is?”

“Network was kind enough to unlock it.” Greg handed over the sticky note he’d scrawled down the pin on. “We can do this tomorrow, you know.”

“Tomorrow we have yesteryear’s missing person records to comb through, barring a miracle.” Sally replied.

Greg groaned and hung his head.

“Don’t suppose you have a charger for it?” Sally asked as the phone buzzed in her hand.

“This one work?” Greg held out his spare charger.

“No, Sir.” The tone of voice said very clearly what Sally thought of his dinosaur phone and charger.

“Go scrounge out there.” Greg waved at the pen as Sally stood with a huff. “Oh, and get this from the printer.”

He hit print on the records.

They were silent for a while once Sally returned, keys on the phone chiming as Sally flicked through the messages on the phone and Greg highlighted numbers on the call record.

“Okay, gimmie.” Greg said when she stopped tapping.

“Mostly nothing. Messages from Sam, his other friends, a number from his Uncle, Nothing unexpected.” Sally kept scrolling.

“Read out the numbers for me.” Greg drew lines in his coloured highlighters at the top of the page in preparation for filling them in. When they were done, the green highlighted lines remained unaccounted for.

“Nothing?” Greg asked.

“Not in his contacts. Nothing in his messages either.”

“Yet according to this, that number has called that phone once a day for the last six months. Not for short calls either, one hour, two hours, 50 minutes.” Greg lipped back a few pages and began circling dates.

“Sir?” Sally leant over to look.

“Almost every day, baring these ones. So what is so special about these dates that our mysterious caller didn’t call?” Greg held out the sheets.

“Lots of long weekends and public holidays.” Sally noted.

“True, and only a short call at Christmas, two minutes.” Greg tapped his finger against the paper. “But this isn’t a public holiday.”

“That,” Sally pulled the papers closer, “is a week.”

“Why a whole week?” Greg mused. “And why no calls in the last week, either?”

“Since the day after Robinson was attacked. I can try and see who the number is registered to.” Sally noted it down. “It’s certainly suspicious.”

“Doesn’t seem like a stalker.” Greg mused. “You don’t talk to your stalker for an hour at a go.”

“You’re thinking a Dom of some kind. One he had or was thinking of entering into an arrangement with.”

“Would explain the calls and the flowers, but why not save the number? And why didn’t his flatmate or any of his friends or family know about this?”

“Well, maybe-”

“Sir!” DC Weatherly stuck her head around the door. She faltered slightly seeing Sally, but powered on. “A body’s been found in Leicester Square.”

“Drug overdose?” Greg sighed, but stood up.

“Gunshot, Sir.”

“I’ll go get more coffee.” Sally looked as resigned as Greg felt.

It was going to be a long night.

~*~

It was a long night, and by the time Greg had finished supervising the incredibly awkward scene, with Sally, Anderson and DC Weatherly all present, he was exhausted. The sound of his feet dragging up the stairs filled the otherwise silent house.

He needed a shower. He needed sleep.

Mycroft’s door was shut, as it was every night. Mycroft never left the door open while he slept. A security precaution or a barrier against the world? Or against a particular person?

Greg opened the door as quietly as he could. Mycroft was asleep, light from the hallway spilling across features lax in slumber. He was curled on his side facing the door, fingers lightly clasping the edge of the pillow.

Leaning against the door, Greg took a deep breath and held it, letting the scent that permeated the room fill his nostrils. As the pheromones hit, Greg could feel himself relax, the knot of tension he carried whenever he was away from Mycroft easing.

Silently he shut the door. He wanted to go in, bed down and just hold Mycroft until he had to go, but that was in less than two hours and he stank of crime scene. There was no point disturbing Mycroft’s much needed rest just for a couple of hours sleep.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go. Almost 9000 words of case fic.
> 
> It's just so nice to see Greg being competent at work.
> 
> No warnings for this chapter.

The next day was a sleep deprived nightmare. Dragged from sleep by the most annoying alarm tone he had been able to find on his phone, Greg had stumbled through a shower, pressed fingers against Mycroft’s door as both greeting and goodbye, and inhaled his toast en route to the Yard. Tamara hadn’t been working that morning, but the man behind the machine had taken one look at Greg and made the strongest infusion possible without Greg having to say anything.

He’d met Sally on the way in, her own overly large coffee clutched in her hand, and they’d grunted at each other in greeting. The rest of the team had trickled in slowly, giving Greg enough time to set up the facts as they knew them on the board.

The briefing was brief and to the point. Everyone was tired after the late night. Some had clearly taken the ‘at this stage no sleep is better than almost none’ route, others had catnapped like Greg. No one complained – they were cops, it wasn’t like this was the first time, certainly wasn’t the last, and everyone knew the first twenty four hours were the most critical in an investigation. Once the caffeine had kicked in there wouldn’t be any signs that these police officers were anything other than fully rested for the general public to pick up on.

Tasks assigned, everyone dispersed. Sally disappeared into the bathroom with a small bag and emerged looking bright-eyed and bushy tailed: the power of makeup. Greg resorted to a couple of handfuls of cold water splashed on his face in his own effort to perk up.

The interviews lasted eight hours, four cups of coffee, and a rushed takeaway sandwich eaten in the car. Following up the enquiries and potential leads generated by the rest of the team took until the businesses were well and truly shut and it was too late to reasonably call on people.

Tromping into the station with heavy feet Greg pulled aimlessly at his tie, too drained to even bother removing it. Wincing at what was coming, he switched his computer on and left it to boot as he went in search of tea. On the way back he started shifting the papers the constables had left in missing persons and a couple of boxes of records to his office. The way it was all boxed up, the constables had been called away to other duties and it’d be up to Greg to finish it somehow.

It took two trips to move the couple of overly full boxes, in between which he logged in and set his ancient machine to its second loading sequence as it attempted to display his desktop. By the end his office was looking very crowded and Greg longed to put his head on his desk just a little, but in true intractable form his computer chose that moment to finally be ready for use.

Greg had been right. Emails. Lots of them.

It would be alright, he reflected, if most, or even any, of them were useful, really useful. Instead there were the usual administrative memos about staff reviews, training seminars, the necessity of PCF42 so would everyone please fill it in when doing their paperwork, and a reminder to have all timesheets submitted for review by Thursday night; the usual IT memos about the internet policy, system updates, and the danger of opening unknown attachments; all the usual committee emails regarding meetings, agendas, and minutes. Greg flipped through as quickly as he could, saving a couple to read properly later and deleting the rest. The spam that had made it past his filter went too, leaving him with a much shorter list of unread messages.

There was one from Mulgrave, saying there was an important meeting Monday morning so all DIs and DSs needed to have their butts in the Yard in time for it. There was one from the Super saying essentially the same thing in much more pompous prose. Greg entered the meeting into his electronic, desk and personal diaries, knowing each entry was as useless as the last as all of them lived at the Yard and that Sally would have to remind him as usual.

The next email was from forensics acknowledging the task list he’d sent with Anderson and reminding him these things took time. Greg snorted and filed it carefully as proof they had got the list, just in case anyone tried to say otherwise later.

The one after that was from one of the Constables on missing persons duty apologising for leaving, but DI Gregson had needed them, Greg snorted again, and summarising their progress. Greg left it in his inbox, easily accessible for later.

A total surprise, the last email was from pathology apologising for the delay and promising him at least one report that night, even if that meant the interns were there until midnight to get it done. Doctor George was a battle axe and meant what he said. Greg was stupidly glad the other Alpha was back from leave and was once again exerting his iron fist over the forensic services pathology lab.

“Here you go.” Sally dropped a takeaway bag on his desk, the mouth-watering smell of Chinese rising from its depths.

“Thought I told you to knock off?” Greg attempted to glare at Sally over his stomach’s loud rumble.

“You’re still here.” Sally pointed out reasonably. “Help clear the desk.”

Sighing, Greg obeyed and shifted paperwork until there was room for various containers and a bag of prawn crackers on the desk.

“Meeting on Monday.” Greg mumbled around a prawn cracker.

“I saw. Unlike you I can check my email on my phone.” Sally passed him chopsticks and a plate filched from the little kitchen unit. “What else have we got?”

“Apart from a foot high stack of pre-reports and witness statements to read through? George promises a pathology report tonight, come hell or high water.” Greg cracked open a can of cola and took a sip.

“He’s only got a couple of hours left.” Sally took a swig from her own drink.

“Torturing interns.” Greg grinned.

Sally laughed, tiredly, but genuinely. “So glad he’s back. Did he say which one?”

“Nomphe.” Greg swallowed and tried again. “Nope, just a report.”

“One is better than none. In the mean time?”

“Take your pick. Foot of reports from today, all the leftovers from yesterday we were meant to do, the missing persons stuff.”

Sally groaned and held out her hand for the reports next to Greg. “That’s no choice at all and you know it. Got to read all this paperwork to generate our own.”

“Yep.” Greg handed her half the stack. “Of course it’s due-”

“Tomorrow.” They chimed in unison.

“And Mulgrave will want it tomorrow morning, not tomorrow afternoon.” Sally pulled a face.

“Yep. We’re also due progress reports on the Robinson and Carson cases, else I’d say stuff it and do it in the morning.” Greg flipped open the first report on his pile. It was Weatherly’s.

“Good thing I got these then.” Sally deposited a six pack of energy drinks on the desk.

There was quiet except for the rustle of pages, scrape of chopsticks and quiet thud of cans being replaced on the desk. An hour and a half in, they swapped stacks and cleaned the empty food containers off the desk. Two hours in, Sally cracked open the first energy drink. Greg held out his hand and took it, leaving Sally to give a disgruntled huff and open another.

Five minutes before midnight Greg had a dot pointed draft report. He also, he noted, had an email from George.

“Got the pathology report.” His voice sounded harsh after the silence, fingers tapping as he sent his thanks back. “It’s for the Robinson case.”

“Guess we’ve got to read it tonight then.” Sally had her own dot points next to her arm.

“Think we could get away with a verbal report tomorrow?” Greg eyed the clock wistfully.

“Meeting on Monday, Sir.” Sally pushed to standing and went to fetch her laptop so she could type her report up in his office.

It was Sally’s personal laptop, the Yard would never shell out for that when the computers were still running Windows XP, but it did make these late nights easier.

Greg printed the report and took his own walk past the bathroom. In the harsh fluorescent lights his skin looked even more washed out and grey than it was. His beard was beginning to show and he had purple bags from two nights on poor or little sleep.

Turning off the taps Greg stopped looking at the reflection. He was tired and worried about My. Definitely not the time to let negative thoughts about his looks enter the scene. He’d be all too receptive to them in that state, he was well aware.

Sally finished her report well before him by virtue of being a better typist, which allowed Greg to read it and provide the summary in his report as he was meant to. In the meantime Sally took to George’s report with a highlighter.

She offered it to him when Greg had finished stapling the required form to the front of his preliminary report, but Greg shook his head.

“Just summarise.” He said wearily, tilting back his can of liquid energy and artificial additives.

It was empty, so he cranked open two more, settling them down in front of himself and Sally.

“Nothing unexpected. Our Vic died from massive blood loss and trauma resulting from a stab wound. Wound appears to be from a fairly ordinary knife. Blade appears to be relatively long, but George estimates something of similar proportions to your average carving knife so it’s not going to be an unusual item.”

“Find those everywhere.” Greg sighed. He’d had two in his old flat and hadn’t had a roast in at least five years.

“Unfortunately,” Sally agreed. “Knife skirted off the rib, nicked the lung and slashed through a load of blood vessels. Even with medical attention it would have been touch and go. No drugs in his system and it doesn’t appear he’d had sex, no secretions or spermicides on his genitals, but that’s not conclusive.”

“So no drugs, no sex.” Greg leant back in his chair and hummed.

“No sex before death, but doesn’t mean he didn’t think he was going to get some. Based on the strength of the thrust, George is suggesting a male offender, but he won’t rule out a strong, athletic or desperate woman.” Sally set the report aside with a side. “And of average to tall stature, so Adam Hastings is well clear.”

Greg pulled the paper copy of the file over and added the report into the back.

“Should we write them up as connected?” Sally asked, pulling her notebook over in preparation of summarising.

“Not yet.” Greg decided. “Write them up separately and note the link.”

“Flip you for Robinson?” Sally hopefully held up a coin.

“Get real.” Greg snorted. “You did all the Carson interviews, you write up the long one.”

“I also did all the Robinson interviews.” Sally sniffed.

“You type faster,” Greg shot back, “and I’m pulling rank.”

Time had reached the point it started dragging then racing unexpectedly ahead in impossible leaps. Greg summarised the progress they’d made, pen scratching over the paper in a slow steady drag as he crossed items off his list of things to include. Sally’s fingers created a steady metronymic click in the background, interspersed by Greg’s bursts of self-taught typing.

There wasn’t much to write in the Robinson case report. Greg summarised the pathology findings, transcribed the relevant notes from Sally’s interview with the bartender (turning a blind eye to the fact the contact details Sally had been given were his personal ones while Greg had been given his work ones), and finally noted that the vic was seen talking a young Beta Sub who was later a victim to a violent assault. He copied across the case file number for the Carson case as reference and triumphantly pressed print.

The clock showed it was already three in the morning. Even if he left that instant he wouldn’t be home before half past and it would take another quarter to half an hour to clean up. Besides that, Sally was still wading through all the interviews for the Carson case and Greg wasn’t about to bail on her now.

Instead he cleared the desk again, taking the empty cans to the recycling and snagging a case file from the stationary cupboard to start filing relevant notes and paperwork. Due to the public nature of the murder there was an above average amount of paperwork. Already full to the brim with crime scene reports, the file was shoved in the case box helpfully set up by one of the constables earlier that day and left on his desk for Greg.

“How’re you going?” He leant over Sally’s shoulders and peered at her screen.

“Getting there.” She stretched out her joints and shook her head to loosen her neck. “If you’re done Sir, you can head home. You don’t need to wait.”

“At this point Donovan I’m resigned to a sleepless night. Even going home now’d be pointless.” He took another sip of the artificial stimulant keeping him going. “Too much of this stuff anyway. Probably just lie there.”

“Probably.” Sally agreed turning her attention back to her report.

Greg sat and stared for a few minutes trying to work out what he was going to do next. He had to stare at them a few minutes before reluctantly acknowledging the missing persons records.

The search was slow going. People always thought it was so simple to identify the dead, but usually that was only when they already had some idea who they were. It wasn’t like on TV where the corpses were portrayed as still, resting humans. The changes to skin and muscles, along with any facial injuries sustained during their death, made it exceptionally hard to match a living face to a dead one.

Greg could still remember one of the talks George had given to the force as part of an effort to bring the forensic services ‘into’ the Yard, the flavour of that month for the internal policy machine. He’d projected a picture onto the board, told them that they all knew who this was, that they’d been famous and everyone had seen photographs of them when they’d been alive. When asked who it was no one had guessed correctly. Ten people in the group hadn’t even picked the correct gender, thought they had been reassured that that would be less of a problem in the field.

Marilyn Monroe looked very different dead to alive.

This meant Greg and the constables he’d instructed weren’t trying to match their John Doe’s face, but other statistics: height, eye colour, age range. Hair would be used as well, once forensics confirmed whether or not John Doe was really a brunette. Gender would be added at a later date, though they’d likely never know his dynamic.

The constables had placed blue sticky notes on all the possible matches. There were depressingly few, and Greg didn’t think that any of them were likely. He’d have forensics check against he attached dental records anyway, but none of them seemed right to him.

Picking up the folder after the red divider, Greg started sorting through. Female, too short, too short, too young, too tall, too old, female, female. The time the process took was less about time on individual records and more about the number of them. Two days of work and only five years had been checked.

He trawled through record after record until his eyes began to blur and he realised he couldn’t remember the numbers he’d just looked at.

“How’re you going?” He replaced the lid on the box and pushed to his feet.

“Done.” Sally hit print and gave him a tired smile.

“Well done.” Greg opened his desk drawer and pulled out a towel and change of clothes.

“Breakfast after?” Sally shut her laptop down and unplugged the power cord.

Greg nodded and walked out down to the showers. The addition of showers to the Yard had been a welcome move. More often than they liked officers worked through the night and the ability to have a shower made those nights slightly more bearable. They were also frequented after particularly gruesome crime scenes or when constables had been sent dumpster diving.

The water sluicing over Greg’s back was relaxing. It was so tempting to rest his forehead against the wall and close his eyes for a few minutes. If he’d been at home in his sparkling clean bathroom he would have, but the showers in the Yard were only one level above scummy and no one wanted to make contact with the walls more than possible.

Trying not to move too slowly Greg washed, dried and redressed, smoothing his hair and then roughing it up again with the towel in an effort to stop the loose drops running down the back of his shirt. Lastly, but with no small amount of relief, he quickly shaved.

Looking less like a vagabond and more, he hoped, like a dignified detective inspector he went to replace everything in his office, scrawling a post it note reminder to take his clothes home for wash. Sticking his head out the window revealed Sally wasn’t back from her own morning shower, but a couple of other DIs who had particularly challenging cases had arrived and were booting up their computers. Greg waved hello and retreated to his desk.

Sally’s summation of the Carson case was a quick read, mainly because Greg was only skimming, and he signed off on the relevant form before taking all three reports and dropping them in DCI Mulgrave’s pigeon hole, set up purely so reports could be delivered whenever. The claim had been convenience for his DIs, but no one fooled themselves that the convenience of not having to be up and behind his desk at seven in the morning to receive the reports wasn’t the convenience Mulgrave had meant.

Reports delivered, a couple of other administrative tasks completed, and Greg found himself wracking his brain for what he had to get done that day. Various leads from yesterday still needed to be chased up, as did the mysterious caller Carson talked to, but never saved. John Doe was more missing persons, so Greg mentally shelved the case until things were a little calmer. His other cases were in the paperwork and preparation for court stages, so nothing too pressing there yet, mostly just case management.

Oh, and he had to get back to Sherlock.

Time then to catalogue Carson’s effects from the hospital. There were of no use forensically, Sam, the paramedics and medical staff at the hospital having been more concerned with his life than preventing contamination of the evidence, as was so often the case, but now that Greg had them he really should get them properly logged as evidence.

He was halfway through when Sally got back carrying a drinks tray with two juices and more bags. Greg forced her to take a £20 to cover last night and that morning, and set the box aside to investigate what she’d brought.

Croissants and fruit salad. Apparently not being home wasn’t going to get him any unhealthy bonuses.

“What were you looking at when I came in?” Sally asked, packing the rubbish back up when they’d eaten.

“Carson’s effects.” Greg swivelled in his chair and started to move everything back onto his desk. “Getting them logged.”

“Had to do that after I’d already written the report.” Sally grumbled.

Greg gave her a sheepish grin.

By that stage most of the officers on shift had arrived for the day. The steady thrum of computers and low conversation merged with the shuffle of papers and click of pens to create the subdued chaos that was a Friday morning. The sounds danced through the door as Sally left to dispose of the garbage, but Greg was well and truly used to the background cacophony of the Yard and it was no longer a distraction.

Picking up the next item Greg noticed a gold glint caught on the edges of the fabric. Gently working it free, Greg could see it was a bracelet.

The bracelet was a simple affair, delicate even. Thin gold links formed a fragile chain, connected at one point to a thin, flat gold plate with Carson’s name engraved into it.

“What’s that?” Sally asked as she sat back down.

“Not sure.” Greg turned it in his hand, holding it up to the light.

It was well polished, each link gleaming in the weak office light. There were lots of scratches, even quite a deep gauge running across the back of the name plate. Well cared for, but carelessly treated.

What did that mean? Greg wasn’t Sherlock, couldn’t draw those final dots together.

“It looks like a young girl’s.” Sally took it from him to look more closely. “These were really popular when I was a kid, until a children’s group argued they were sexualising children.”

She flipped it around a few times, examining it under the light as if there was room for some kind of hidden compartment.

“It’s definitely his.” She eventually concluded. “The name makes that fairly clear. Maybe it’s a medical alert bracelet.”

Sally’s tone of voice made it very clear that even she believed her explanation was grasping at straws.

“With no medical information on it?” Greg accepted it back and dropped it into a ziplock bag for safekeeping. The clothes were write offs, but like the phone Carson would probably want this back if he ever woke up.

“Guess he just liked wearing a name bracelet. It’s not like it’s ever going to be mistaken as a claim.” Sally shrugged. “Unusual, but I’ve seen stranger.”

“Yeah.” Greg didn’t mention his own necklaces at home and kept staring at the bracelet, thoughts niggling and trying to tug his mind this way and that. “Get onto the hospital and confirm that Carson doesn’t have any medical flags for me, and get a photo from the flatmate. Recent, and so you can see his wrists.”

“You want to see a photo of him wearing it.” Sally frowned as she thought.

“Might be nothing, but worth seeing. Check whether he was right or left handed while you’re there.”

“What’re you thinking?” Sally leant forward intent.

“Don’t know.” They felt like the right questions to ask, so ask them Greg would. It was as close to gut instinct as anything, but he could and had worked with that.

“As you wish, Sir.”

Once Sally was gone Greg raced through logging the rest of the items, reflecting that Peter Carson’s wallet was even blander than Greg’s own (no photos, but two different library cards), and turned his attention back to the bracelet.

His forays into Google suggested that this one was custom made as none of the fancy little chains mass manufactured for young girls to play dress up with came close to matching. That would possibly help if they needed to trace it, but only if they could find the correct jeweller first.

Skimming down the next few links, Greg was surprised to see one to the history museum. He clicked on it out of curiosity and spent half an hour reading about the history of exchanging collars and bracelets. Fascinating, but not really relevant.

“Sir.” Sergeant Williams poked his head around the door and held out a piece of paper for Greg.

Greg looked at it and couldn’t hold back a fairly shark-like grin. He loved it when a case started to fall into place.

~*~

Sally double parked as Greg hustled himself into the car. He managed it just before the cars behind were impatient enough to start honking and Sally pulled smoothly away.

“Where to?” The tiredness in her voice made Greg glad he’d dashed out and got them more coffee when she’d called to say she was on her way back from Carson’s flat with the photo, even if they were well over their recommended caffeine intake, probably for the whole week.

“30 Ripplevale Grove, Islington.” Greg set the coffees carefully in the cup holders and began to shuffle his overcoat off, trying to manage without punching Sally in the eye. He did, but the folder he’d had on his lap spilt onto the floor.

“Posh. Why are we headed there?” Sally deftly manoeuvred through traffic and took a gulp of her coffee, now that Greg’s flailing arms were out of the way and she wasn’t likely to end up wearing it.

“Because that,” Greg announced triumphantly as he slid his seatbelt buckle into place, “is where our mysterious caller lives.”

“Huh.” Sally pointed behind her. “Your picture’s on the back seat.”

Greg twisted around to retrieve it. It must have been from last summer because Carson and his uncle were both in shorts and smiling broadly through sun tinged cheeks. The gold bracelet glittered on Carson’s right wrist, small enough to escape notice unless someone was looking for it.

“And he’s?”

“Right handed yes.” Sally frowned. “Are you seriously thinking it’s a claim, Sir? Carson didn’t have a Dom.”

“Yet he wears an old fashioned, custom made bracelet on his right wrist, receives mysterious phone calls that he always takes and last upwards of an hour, has been sent flowers, and shows no interest in any of the Doms around him, even when they show interest in him.”

“He’s shy.” Sally countered.

“Yeah, but it’s still suggestive.” Greg leant back against the headrest and then sat up lest he fall asleep. “The question if I’m right becomes why was the relationship secret? And why did Robinson die and Carson get bashed?”

“ _If_ Carson had a Dom Robinson may have been a possessiveness or jealously motivated killing. Maybe Mr Mysterious thought he was getting overly familiar with his Sub.”

“That was the old theory.” Greg agreed.

“But?” Sally asked, resigned.

“Well doesn’t that seem like an overreaction to you? Robinson talked to him once for less than five minutes and dies because of it?”

“It has happened.”

“Yeah, but I’d expect Carson to be an Omega to inspire that kind of reaction from his Dom, and even then that is one overly possessive Alpha. Surely an Alpha who’d react like that wouldn’t be likely to let him out at all.”

“True, and how would his Dom have even known? None of his friends had any idea about him having a partner and no one randomly disappeared during the evening, so it’s none of them.”

“And why would his Dom assault Carson days later?” Greg tapped a finger on the car window.

“Sorry to say, Sir, but your theory has more holes than a sinking ship.”

“Yes, it does.” Greg was forced to agree.

The rest of the ride was spent imbuing their systems with as much caffeine as possible. Greg was getting to the point where it wasn’t doing much more than making him shake and he suspected he was now running almost off pure adrenaline.

30 Ripplevale Grove was a semidetached brick building with a neatly maintained if somewhat sparse garden and a crisp white door.

“Nice.” Sally commented as she shut and locked the car.

Greg nodded, glad he had taken the time that morning to shower and shave. He rang the doorbell and they waited patiently as footsteps approached the door at a steady pace.

“May I help you?” The door opened and a young well-dressed male hovered in its wake.

From his face and the clothes Greg put him at mid to late twenties. From his stance and the arrogant tilt of his chin Greg suspected not just Dom, but Alpha.

“Daniel Hill?” Greg asked, reaching for his ID. The young Alpha nodded and Greg held out the warrant card for him to see. “I’m Detective Inspector Lestrade, this is Detective Sergeant Donovan, might we come in?”

Daniel took in both their IDs in a glance and stood back, gesturing them inside. Shutting the door behind them he led the way to the sitting room.

“Tea?” He offered politely.

They both demurred and settled themselves lightly on the flowered armchairs.

“Very nice place you’ve got.” Greg remarked conversationally.

“Thank you. It’s my Sire’s, of course. I could never afford anything like this.” Daniel Hill sat stiffly on the arm chair opposite Greg.

“What do you do, Mr Hill?” Sally enquired politely.

“I’m studying for my Masters at LSE. My Sire would like me to follow him into the family business.”

There was no invitation as there had been with Sam to call him Daniel.

“Banking?” Greg asked, taking a wild stab in the dark.

“Indeed.” Daniel’s voice was as formal as his posture.

“You don’t see very excited about it.” Sally offered.

Daniel shrugged. “It’s a job, but I highly doubt you wanted to speak to me regarding my career plans.”

“No.” Greg pulled his folder out from under his arm and set it on the coffee table between them. “Do you know a Beta by the name of Peter Carson?”

“I don’t believe I’m acquainted with such a person.” Daniel didn’t even twitch.

“Are you sure? Think carefully.”

“Very sure, Detective Inspector.” Daniel’s voice could have frozen steam.

Greg had to hand it to the kid, he was good.

“Maybe this will help.” Greg pulled the photo of Carson and his uncle out and slid it across the table. “Carson is the one on your left.”

“I assure you, Detective Inspector, I have no knowledge of this Beta.” Daniel drew himself up and raised his chin, refusing to even look at the photograph.

It took Greg a moment to work out that the younger Alpha was Domming him. Not actively, but passively the way John had described with body language and signals and the like. Now that he’d had John’s explanation behind him, Greg could recognise what was fairly common Dominant suspect behaviour for what it was, though mentally it reminded him of teenage jocks posturing more than the brilliant displays animals used to warn off challenges.

Unlike John and Mycroft Greg didn’t have any Dominance to pull to the fore and let bubble just below the surface, however he’d had more than enough proof over the years that he didn’t need to, and pulling Sherlock to the front of his mind, tried to copy exactly how the younger Sub had acted when he’d set Greg down at the pub.

He didn’t try the active Dominance Sherlock had used, he suspected that trick took years to master and he’d only cock it up and reveal himself. Besides which, it wasn’t legal to use Dominance in the course of questioning a suspect.

They held the tableau, Greg thanking his lucky stars that he’d spent so long around Mycroft (and Sherlock) pretending to be a Dom because it made young Mr Hill’s efforts easily resistible by comparison, until eventually Daniel didn’t quite cave, but relaxed.

It wasn’t, Greg realised suddenly, really about winning or losing. In theory winning and losing would have happened quite quickly. The prolonged contest was about determining who was of a level and earning respect. He also realised that old family upbringing or not, Daniel Hill was not a strong Dom else he would never have felt the need to give Greg a chance to prove his resistance.

Nuances and undercurrents.

Greg wondered how much else he’d missed over the years by just not realising it was there.

Daniel’s eyes flickered to the picture and back up again. “Never seen him before in my life.”

“Mr Hill, I must ask you to look and look carefully.” Greg requested sternly, readying himself to pull out the phone records.

Daniel reluctantly dropped his eyes again. Forced to look at Carson he could only maintain the facade a few seconds before his face crumpled.

“Yes, I know him.” He slumped down in his chair, eyes still fixed on the photograph. Slowly he raised his head. “Why are you – something’s happened to him hasn’t it?”

The answer must have been written on Greg’s face because Daniel leapt to his feet in a panic.

“What happened? Is he dead? Oh God, he’s dead isn’t he? Oh God, oh God-”

“Daniel, Daniel!” Greg stood and grabbed his arm. “Daniel, he’s alive.”

The strength went out of Daniel’s legs and he collapsed back down into his armchair, forcing Greg to release his arm or be pulled over the coffee table.

“Daniel,” Greg kept his voice soft, “why do you think something has happened to him?”

“You’re here aren’t you?” Daniel’s voice was part dull relief, part exhausted panic. “And he was always worried...”

“What was he worried about?”

“Us, someone finding out. There,” Daniel hesitated, “there wasn’t really anything to find out. A few kisses. Something always made him pull back from more.”

“So the two of you weren’t-” Greg waved his hand a bit, whether to indicate serious or playing was left up to interpretation.

“It’s complicated.” Daniel sounded resigned, not defensive as Greg would have expected him to be if he’d reached the end of his patience and become aggressive. “At first I wondered if he was ashamed of his friends and that was why he didn’t want me to meet them, but he’d always tell me stories about them and never seemed hesitant. The opposite – I can tell you all about Mabel’s latest drama or Azir’s latest conquest or the love triangle at uni between Stephanie, Louise, and Rebecca.

“Then I wondered,” his voice faltered slightly, “whether he was ashamed of _me_ , he didn’t want them to meet me, not vice versa. He picked up on that pretty quickly. Petey was never dumb, just quiet.”

“And what did he do?” Greg asked gently.

“Fell over himself trying to convince me otherwise. He was so upset I thought that. Not at me,” Daniel hurriedly corrected, “at himself for making me feel like that. He _cried_.”

The helpless tone in Daniel’s voice at that confirmed for Greg that even if Daniel and Carson hadn’t been playing together and didn’t have a formal arrangement, Carson was still very much Daniel’s Sub. No Dom liked seeing his Sub cry unless it was part of a planned and deliberate session.

“He,” Daniel swallowed, “he always said everything would be okay once he finished uni, that it’d be safe then.”

“Safe from what?” Sally asked.

“I don’t know.” Daniel sounded anguished. “He, he asked once whether if it came to it, I’d leave with him, go somewhere no one knew us and start again as a couple. A proper one, together.”

“And what did you say?”

“Yes.” Daniel glared at her defiantly. “Anything.”

“But he never gave you a hint as to what he was scared of?” Greg pressed.

“No. I asked, but he’d get so upset about it, and I didn’t want him to leave.” Daniel swung back to face Greg. “What’s happened to him?”

“Have you ever seen this Alpha before?” Greg pulled Robinson’s photo out of the file and laid it on the table.

“What’s-?”

“Have you ever seen him before?” Greg repeated firmly, well used to maintaining the upper hand in interviews with other Doms. “Look carefully, please.”

Daniel picked up the photo and studied it for several minutes. Even watching carefully Greg could see no flicker of recognition.

“No, sorry.” Daniel’s grip tightened around the photo. “’Is he the one, what did he...?”

Sally gently worked the photo from his hands.

“Where were you the Thursday before last?” Greg asked keeping a careful eye on Daniel’s reactions.

There was muted tension, slowly gathering and winding in him like a spring, but no sudden flashes that would indicate the date meant anything in particular to him, especially not in a negative sense.

“At my mate’s, trying to write a paper.” He sounded baffled and reluctant, an undertone of urgency pushing his voice.

“And last Saturday?” Greg asked.

“Trying to get the paper finished over at my mate’s. Uni life’s not as glamorous as people like to remember.”

“Why did you stop calling Carson a week and a half ago?” Greg asked, pressing forward.

“He asked me to.” Daniel answered automatically.

Greg reflected back over all the blank spots in the phone record. “Was this a common thing?”

“Sort of.” Daniel looked at him with wide beseeching eyes. “We’d meet up at the library and spend time together there, have coffee, but mostly Peter preferred calling. He was worried about us being noticed together, and he never let me call when he was going home for the holidays, only at his. He was so upset when I called at Christmas, but I just had to...”

“What’s different this time?” Greg kept his tone brisk, though he wanted to soften it and be reassuring.

“He was scared.” Daniel whispered. “Said it was too dangerous for me to call. I asked him why, but he was in a panic and just kept repeating that it wasn’t safe. I begged him to go to the police if he wouldn’t tell me, but he refused. Told me not to call until he called to tell me it was okay, and that if anyone asked I didn’t know him.

“Please,” Daniel’s voice cracked and he looked unbelievably young to Greg’s eyes. “What has happened?”

Greg took pity on him, though he wasn’t sure whether telling him was really much of a favour. “Peter was attacked last Saturday night. He’s in the hospital in a coma.”

“No, no, no.” Daniel leapt to his feet. “I have to go, I have to go to-”

“Daniel.”

“-him. He’s alone, he’s hurt, God, he’s hurt and-”

“Daniel.”

“-I didn’t know, I didn’t know.”

“Daniel!” Greg grabbed the young Dom and pushed him back down into the chair. “Daniel, you need to listen to me.”

“I have to go. I’m his Alpha, his Dom.” Daniel pleaded.

“I know, I know, but you don’t know where he is, and,” he increased pressure as Daniel tried to stand again, “obviously he was right about it being dangerous. If you go to him now you’ll be putting both of you in harm’s way.”

“But-” Daniel’s eyes were wild.

“But for now he’s safe and he’s stable. There’s nothing you can do by going to him, except possibly get him hurt.”

“Do you think so?” Daniel asked, wide eyed and subdued.

“I don’t know.” Having successfully redirected the Alpha protectiveness into a useful vein, Greg let go of Daniel’s shoulders and sat back in his chair. “From what you’ve said though he was worried about someone finding out about your relationship, whether to protect you or as a trigger for something. Until we know more, it’s better to treat what he said as more than mere paranoia given what happened to him.”

Daniel nodded reluctantly. “That man, the other one you showed me, is he the one who...”

Greg shook his head. “He was seen talking to Peter at a club two days before Peter was attacked. Later that night he wound up dead. We don’t,” Greg had to raise his voice as Daniel began scrabbling against his chair to stand again, “know whether the events are connected yet, but in light of the coincidence we’re investigating any possible link.”

Daniel reluctantly sank back down at Greg’s glare.

“I know it’s hard, but be patient, yeah?” Greg tried to smile reassuringly.

He received a brusque nod in return.

Packing away the photos into the folder, Greg stood.

“Let me know if you find anything. Please.” The please sounded tacked on the end as Daniel struggled with not being able to do anything for, or even see, his Sub.

“Daniel,” the name was sharp, “you need to stay away from him.”

The chin rose defiantly before dropping in acquiescence. “I know.”

“I mean it. You gave him the bracelet you did so this would stay secret, don’t mess it up now.” Greg warned sternly.

“Bracelet?” Daniel looked at him confused. “What bracelet?”

Frowning slightly Greg extracted the plastic bag from his inside jacket pocket and held it out for Daniel to see.

“Oh, that.” Daniel returned it with barely a glance. “That’s not from me. Some family thing I think. He always wore it.”

“Really? Unusual choice.” Greg put the bag back in his pocket.

“Yeah, he never really wanted to talk about it.” Daniel stood too.

“Then if we can just grab the name and phone number of your friend that’d be great. We just,” Greg held up a hand to forestall further protests, “have to check, Daniel.”

Sighing Daniel gave them a name and mobile number, looking disgruntled as he did.

“Thanks. Call me if you can think of anything else that might help.” Greg held out his card.

“Of course.”

Offering to drive on the way back felt like a hugely demonstrative gesture to Greg, but Sally brushed him off, a fact for which Greg was glad. The lack of sleep was really beginning to catch up with him and she was, at least, one night better off than him.

“Well you were right about the secret Dom.” Sally commented.

“Wrong about the bracelet and the motive though.” Greg leant his head against the window. Leaning back would send him to sleep, but he was trusting the cold glass to keep him awake.

“Well, yes,” Sally smiled, “but I was going to be nice and not mention that. What next?”

Greg sighed. “Drop me at the train. You head back to the bartender and get a positive ID on Carson from the photo.”

“I’ll have to go to his house. It’s a bit further out.” Sally warned.

“I know, but at least it’s something that can be ticked off. I’ll call this mate of Daniel’s, confirm his alibi.”

Hopefully the walk would wake him up a bit.

“What do you think Carson was so afraid of?”

“I don’t know, Donovan, I don’t know.” Greg shook his head.

Sally dropped him at the station and sped off to collect the necessary formal identification from Clive the very cute bartender. Greg was tempted to tell her to take her time, enjoy a chat, but the way she was studiously ignoring her phone as it plaintively buzzed and buzzed trying to get her attention he thought it would be safer to keep his mouth shut.

As expected Daniel’s alibi panned out for the attack on Robinson, and if the young Alpha was guilty of attacking Carson Greg would nominate the kid for a BAFTA and throw in his towel and retire. This left him back at his office bouncing ideas off his wall by ten in the morning. A depressing time to be on his nth caffeine hit for the day, but nothing he could do about that now.

Eventually he started on a list of questions that still needed to be explained in an attempt to order everything in his head.

  1. Why did Robinson die?
  2. Who killed him?
  3. Who attacked Peter Carson?
  4. Why?
  5. What was Carson scared of?
  6. Why would he talk to Hill only at his home?
  7. Are the cases connected?
  8. Why was Robinson in the alley?
  9. The bracelet – who, why?
  10. Daniel’s reaction – genuine, but a little over the top?
  11. Since SD mentioned it, why was Carson wearing so much cologne?
  12. Uncle – believable?
  13. Who or what did Carson see before he died?



Hesitating, Greg eventually wrote:

  1. Was Carson messed up in drugs? Running or dealing?



He put the pen down and stared at the list. Drugs were the simplest explanation for why Carson was so afraid. If he’d got mixed up in some bad business, maybe to pay his university fees? He didn’t seem the type, but you could never tell and his parents would probably say he would, given their rather scathing assessment of their son.

Greg put a star next to number nine. For some reason he couldn’t explain, the bracelet still struck him as important.

There was, Greg noted, an imbalance of information about Carson and Robinson. They’d been assuming that Carson was the nexus that got Robinson killed, but maybe it was the other way around. Maybe Carson was targeted because of Robinson.

A quick call to Carson’s acting physician at the hospital confirmed that even if Carson was dealing drugs, he wasn’t taking them, the blood work backed up by hair samples. There were, however, some unexplained oddities in Carson’s blood work that they were investigating. Importantly, Carson had shown some signs of waking, so even though they’d abated, the doctors were hopeful.

Everything would be so much easier, Greg sighed, if he could just write it all off as drugs.

Resigning himself to investigating Robinson and his Leicester Square body some more and letting this case rest a while, Greg wasn’t really paying attention as he answered his phone until Sally’s excited tone shook him back to awareness.

“Donovan?” Greg squinted, though it did nothing to help his hearing. Just a silly automatic response of a body straining to catch up.

“You’re never going to believe this, Sir.” The car door slammed and the engine roared to life as Sally started the car in a rush.

“Clive didn’t identify Carson?” Greg was slightly disbelieving given everything else and graciously ignored the fact that in her excitement Sally was driving and using her phone at the same time.

“He did better than identify Carson.” Greg could picture the excited gleam in her eyes. “He identified the uncle.”

“What?” Greg sat bold upright in his uncomfortable office chair.

“The picture has Carson and his uncle in it. Apparently not only was little Peter there that night, but Uncle Carson was being the lecherous creep at the bar, you know the type. Clive can’t remember much, just that he was watching the room intently, like he was waiting for someone and they hadn’t arrived, and, get this, he bought his last drink and left just after pathology starts our window for time of death. Clive was glad to see him gone. Really gave him the willies, apparently.”

Never so thankful for mobile phones, Greg barrelled down to AV.

“Stevens, I need the footage from the Illusion club, now.” Greg barged between Gregson and the tech who was about to load something up for him.

“Come off it, Lestrade.” Gregson complained. “I’m-”

“Shut it, Gregson, you stole my constables. Now, Stevens! Sally, does Clive remember about when he arrived?”

“He was at the bar not long after Carson.” Sally replied.

The tape was still paused where they’d left it at Carson’s arrival, so Greg told Stevens to play on, ignoring the fuming Gregson glaring daggers into his back. It only took two minutes, ten minutes in real time, before the security footage showed Michael Carson entering the club.

“Stevens, I need to know what time that Beta leaves the club. Donovan, get back here as fast as you can. Legally. We’ve got an alibi to crack.”

Hanging up, Lestrade spared a quick nod for Gregson, now being helped by Adams who’d arrived back from wherever, and raced back to his desk, trying to tell himself not to get too over excited about this.

Carson Senior was at the club. That was all. There was no motive for him attacking Robinson, even less for him going on to assault his own nephew while he was apparently in Scotland. There was no evidence he’d even seen Robinson at the club. Everything was circumstantial.

It just felt right, like puzzle pieces slotting into place. Now he just had to see what the picture was.

Pulling a sheet of paper out of the case file on his desk he dialled a number.

“Hello?” Voices could be heard talking in the background with what sounded like the TV and some sort of movie full of explosions.

“Sam? It’s Detective Inspector Lestrade. I was wondering if you could answer a couple more questions for me, if you have the time.”

“Sure, let me just…” The background noise faded as Sam stepped out of the room. “What did you want to know?”

“Peter’s relationship with his uncle, what was it like?”

“Good, I suppose. Compared to the rest of his family certainly.”

“Good you suppose?” Greg asked, resisting the urge to chew on his pen in agitation.

“Better than his parents. Pete’d always seem a little wound up when he was going to visit, but it was mainly just the stress of knowing every time he went home to his uncle he’d have to see them too, even just for a bit. He was so much more relaxed when he came home. Sad though, and guilty. Family always made him feel like that.”

“Did you ever meet his uncle?”

“Yeah, once. Went out for dinner with him and Pete not long after I answered the ad for a flatmate. I think his uncle wanted to check me out. He relaxed when he found out I was a Sub.”

Interesting, but any protective parent would be the same.

“What was your impression of him?” Greg asked.

“Um, a bit over the top. You know those embarrassing uncles everyone has, the ones that are really loud and physical, always slapping you on the back and pinching your cheeks when you’re little? He’s one of those. I think it made Pete a bit uncomfortable as he was kind of stiff, almost flinched a couple of times.” Sam seemed to realise how that sounded. “Pete’s not big on physical contact and he prefers to blend into the background, rather than loud and in your face. Mr Carson is very in your face. Pete was a little embarrassed of him.”

“I know the sort.” Greg casually remarked. “Always trying to be as macho and outgoing as Alphas.”

“Exactly.” Sam sounded relieved. “I think Mr Carson must have been a little self-conscious that his brother was an Alpha and he’s not, cause he really tries to make up for it. Dude looks like he’s on Roids or something.”

“Thanks Sam.” Greg gave in and bit the end of his pen. “I’ll call if there’s anything else.”

“Sure thing.” Sam sounded puzzled, but didn’t ask the motivation behind Greg’s questions.

“Oh, just one more quick one.” Greg caught himself just before Sam hung up. “How do you think Carson would have reacted to Peter getting a Dom?”

“No idea,” Sam replied, “but he did check me out like I said, so I’d guess he’d want to meet him, check he wasn’t going to do wrong by Petey.”

“Right, thanks.” Greg made a note on his paper.

“Anything else, Sir?” Sam asked.

“No, thanks Sam. You’ve been very helpful.” Greg hung up and contemplated what Sam had said.

“Sir.” Sally poked her head around the door.

“Carson Senior is a possessive wanna be Alpha uncle.” Greg told her, without looking up, doodling on the page next to his list of questions. The picture he was starting to uncover was looking ugly.

“He was in Scotland.” Sally stated plainly.

Greg brought his eyes up to meet hers. “Let’s check that shall we.”

The flurry of phone calls that followed confirmed that Michael Carson had been at the pharmaceutical conference, had checked into his hotel, and had been at both the conference lunch and the breakfast the next day.

In between there was no one who could confirm anything.

Sally managed to sweet talk the hotel security footage out of their manager and was at her desk, pouring over the files transferred to her through some file sharing program Greg didn’t understand and didn’t want to. Greg was emailing the railway station where, if he’d come back to England, Michael Carson would have boarded. Hopefully someone would recognise him and recall him getting on a train. If Carson had flown back things would be more complicated and Greg would have to review all the airport security footage as well. That would be a long slog.

While he waited for the emails back, Greg tried to make the picture clearer in any way he could.

“Sir.” Sally carried her laptop in, screen split to show the grey pixelated image of Michael Carson exiting and entering the hotel.

At 4:16pm and 6:23am respectively.

“Nothing in between?” Greg squashed the excitement.

“Nothing in between.” Sally’s eyes practically glowed.

Greg’s email chimed and holding his breath he turned and checked.

Anderson with the preliminary forensics report for Wednesday’s crime scene.

Greg sighed. “Nothing from the railway yet at the other end.”

“What do you want to do?” Sally asked.

Greg chewed at his pen, wishing that passports had to be used to travel internally within the UK. “There’s nothing we can do to prove anything. We can’t put the knife in his hand, we can’t prove he hit Peter Carson, only that he had the chance to do both.”

“We need a confession.” Sally summarised.

“We need a confession.” Greg confirmed.

“Think we can get it?” Sally worried at her lip. With good reason because their evidence was practically nil.

“We’re going to have to.”

“How?”

Greg tapped his pen on his desk. “We’ll have to ask.”


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year!
> 
> Hope you all get to watch the new episodes soon. I certainly can't wait!!!
> 
> As some of you have guessed, real warnings for this chapter, namely: past child abuse, incest, and really messed up mental states of all sorts of sick and tired kinds, the latter's description possibly verging on dropping, if you find that a trigger for you.

“Thanks for coming in Mr Carson. Apologies for the short notice.” Greg shook the Beta Dom’s hand and led him through the Yard to Greg’s office. “Sorry about the fish bowel effect. We can use an interview room if you’d prefer.”

“I’ll be fine.” Michael Carson settled into the chair opposite Greg, looking only slightly disconcerted by the glass walls.

“You remember Sergeant Donovan?”

As Sally politely shook hands Greg took the opportunity to study Michael Carson. The Beta was tall and well built, someone who not only spent considerable amounts of time at the gym, but someone who did so with the intent of achieving a certain build. He was blonde, the natural colour assisted by highlights, and tanned, presumably from sunbeds or a bottle. His suit was professional, but the effect struck Greg as young rather than classic or timeless – whether it was the colour or cut, or whatever, it was a young man’s suit.

Trying too hard Sam had said. Greg could see what he’d meant.

He pressed record on the tape recorder on the desk.

“You don’t mind if I record? It’s easier when we’re asking about so many details we might need to use later in court.”

“Not at all. Anything to catch this Alpha who was harassing Peter.” Michael Carson looked genuinely angry.

“Thank you. We’re not sure whether he was harassing him, but…” Greg let his voice trail off. Carson would fill in his own blank.

After stating both his and Sally’s names for the record, Greg continued.

“Firstly, for the record, when was the last time you saw your nephew?” Greg asked formally.

“About a month ago when he came to stay with me for the weekend.” Carson replied. Greg could tell he was making an effort to annunciate clearly for the tape.

“And did you hear from your nephew after that?” Greg asked.

“A couple of phone calls, a few texts.”

“Did he seem tense, out of sorts, worried at all?”

“No,” Carson hesitated. “The last two weeks he did seem a little forced, as if he were trying to act normally, but I thought he might be worried about uni work.”

“When did you last speak to him?”

“Some time earlier in the week. I can’t remember the exact day, but we talked about my trip so it must have been before Friday. Maybe Tuesday, I think.”

“And on Thursday you were?”

“At home packing for my trip.”

“All night.”

“Yes.”

“Did Peter have a Dom?” Greg smiled politely and looked at the recorder when Michael Carson gave him a confused stare.

“Ah no, he didn’t.” Carson’s eyes cleared and he nodded in understanding.

“Any particular reason?” Greg asked, leaning forward onto his elbows as if he were genuinely interested in the answer.

“Peter is shy. Most Doms frighten him, you see, because of his rocky home life.”

“And you never took him to see a counsellor or a psychologist about it?”

“No,” Carson shook his head. “Peter knew I was there whenever he needed to talk. I’m the exception, you see, he’s not afraid of me.

“Peter has friends who are Dominants.” Greg observed.

There was a microsecond of ugly, sneering disgust on Carson’s face before he smiled his genial smile. Looking at the composed, generous Beta in front of him, Greg found it hard to process what he thought he’d seen.

“It’s taken time to build those relationships,” Carson managed to say through glittering white teeth, “and they’re very fragile.”

“So you’ve had no hints of a new Alpha in Peter’s life?”

The sneer lasted long enough this time for Greg to be sure that yes, he was actually seeing it. This time there was a shift of some sort in Carson’s body language so that even once he’d returned to the more appropriate smile, he radiated a certain aura of smugness.

“None at all.”

“Mr Carson,” Greg fixed a level gaze on the Dom. “I asked you here because you said you wanted to help us find who attacked your nephew. If you’re not going to be open with me then I’ll conclude this interview.”

The back of Greg’s neck bristled as if another of those micro expressions had been focused on him, though he couldn’t say one had been.

“My apologies Detective Inspector. I didn’t realise you wanted to listen to conjecture rather than fact.” The supercilious smile was firmly in place.

Greg chose to smile back rather than reply verbally.

“You’re quite correct. I suspected my nephew might have caught the eye of some over muscled moron. Naturally he did not enjoy the attention, but felt unable to get out of the situation without causing any harm to himself.”

“Did Peter confirm this? I assume you tried to talk to him about it.” Greg schooled his expression into studious concern.

“I tried and he made the situation very clear to me, though he was too scared to say anything outright. I could read behind the words.” Carson’s face fell and his fingers clutched at the arms of the office chair he was seated on. “I promised him we’d talk about it when I got back from Scotland, said he could come home and stay with me for a bit until he was safe.”

Greg sat back in his chair and studied the Dom sitting in front of him. If it was an act, it was a masterful one, yet it didn’t ring true the way Daniel Hill’s desperation had. If Greg hadn’t already met Daniel, didn’t have proof Carson was lying… Being an oily git who set every sleaze alarm blaring wouldn’t be enough on its own, hadn’t been earlier.

Greg had to wonder why Carson had agreed to come in. Was he that confident they knew nothing; that he could sit in front of them, let them see him and get away with it?

“Do you have any idea who this Alpha might be?” Greg kept his eyes trained on Carson so he didn’t miss the slight shift before he spoke.

Discomfort or satisfaction?

“Not a clue unfortunately, else I’d have brought Peter in to apply for a restraining order.”

“Do you recognise this Alpha at all?” Greg slid Robinson’s photo from a specially prepared folder on his desk. “He was seen by several witnesses talking to Peter two days before he was attacked.”

The smug smirk flickered across Carson’s features again before he shook his head. “Never seen him before in my life.”

Did he really think he was that good an actor? His mask was slipping as he got more and more confident.

“I see.” Greg accepted the photo back, but left it sitting out on top of the folder.

“Have you tracked him down yet?”

“Unfortunately he died the night he spoke to Peter.” Greg made a show of tapping his pen thoughtfully against the desk. “It’s quite possible he tried to push things too far and Peter was required to strike out. If one of his friends had seen, they could have gone after Peter later.”

“It would be self-defence, surely.” Carson demurred.

There was an excited gleam in his eye and it made Greg sick to realise he was excited about the prospect of getting away with murder and pinning it on his nephew.

“Depends what the forensics shows.” Greg shrugged and put his pen down.

“Nonsense.” Carson was dismissive of any possibility otherwise. “Peter would never do such a thing without reason. Of course once he is well he’ll return home with me so this ugly turn of events need never occur again. You need not concern yourself about that, Inspector.”

Greg clamped his teeth together hard to prevent himself saying anything pre-emptively.

“Now, if that’s sorted, is there anything else you need me for, Inspector?” Carson smiled his oily, self-assured smile, evidently fully confident he’d pulled the wool over everyone’s eyes and got away free.

“Yes, actually, one more thing.” Greg sat up straight in his chair, throwing his shoulders back in preparation. “You can tell me the truth.”

The confident smile picked up a sullen, defiant twinge. “Detective Inspector I have no idea what you mean.”

“Why don’t we start with this?” Greg slid the photo back to Carson. “Do you recognise this Alpha?”

“I’ve already said no.” Carson slid it back without looking.

“When was the last time you saw your nephew?”

“Over a month ago. If this is-”

“Where were you Thursday night before you left for Scotland?” Greg interrupted.

“I was at home packing.” Carson went to stand. “We’re done here.”

Greg slammed a still shot from the security footage at Illusion onto the desk, causing Carson to jump.

“Care to try again?” He asked mildly. “Because I’ve got witnesses and security footage that place you at the Illusion club the Thursday night your nephew and this Alpha were present.”

“I wasn’t aware he was there.” Carson growled through gritted teeth.

“Really?” Greg raised an eyebrow. “Because witnesses can place you at the bar less than five feet from where Peter ordered drinks and this Alpha talked to him.”

Carson glared at Greg and said nothing.

“Would you like to know what I think?” Greg’s voice was hard. “I think you were suspicious that maybe Peter had formed an attachment to an Alpha, so when he avoided your questions you followed him, just to see for yourself.”

“Being at the club is no evidence I stabbed anyone.” Carson lifted his chin.

Greg’s smile showed too many teeth to be comforting. “I never said he was stabbed.”

“It was in the papers.” Caron seemed to realise his misstep.

“No, it wasn’t.” Greg didn’t let himself hope that maybe, just maybe, they’d manage this.

“So your theory is I killed this Alpha for taking unwelcomed liberties with Peter and then his lowlife associates assaulted Peter in turn. That’s preposterous.” Carson scoffed.

“Not at all.” Greg disagreed. “I think you murdered Robinson because you thought he was interested in Peter and then later had a disagreement with Peter, during which you bashed him over the head.”

Carson gaped and then turned an unflattering shade of red. “I was in Scotland when Peter was attacked. You can check with my hotel.”

“Oh, we did.” Greg pulled the time stamped screen shot of Carson entering and exiting the hotel out of the folder. “They were kind enough to send through their security footage. That’s you leaving the hotel at 4:16pm and not arriving back until 6:23 am.”

“This is rubbish and I am leaving.” Carson stood up.

“Do sit down, Mr Carson, I’m not finished. This,” Greg extracted the next piece of paper from the folder, thanking God it had arrived before Carson, even if only by five minutes, “is a sworn statement by staff members at Waverly Park Train Station in Edinburgh who identified a photo of you and will testify they saw you boarding an express to London. Security footage at both ends will bear out both this and your return trip.”

“Hundreds of people pass through-”

“They don’t carry two driver’s licences with different names on them, Mr Carson. The clerk noticed when you paid, cash to avoid your card being traced I assume, and remembered. Fake ID rather backfired on you there.

“So what happened?” Greg leant forward on his elbows. “Peter threaten to come to the police about what you’d done once he realised? Did he rebel, tell you he wanted to live his own life? After all that time looking out for him protecting him, giving him some where safe to stay and a happy life whenever his parents were too out of control, that must have hurt, being told to get lost.”

Carson twitched.

“You’d practically raised the boy, killed for him, loved him like your own. How dare he throw you aside.”

Carson twitched again, gaze locked on Greg.

“You were angry, understandably so. He turned to leave, and you stopped him.”

Carson’s hands clenched.

“I do think I’ll be off, Detective Inspector.” He smoothly rose from the chair. “You’ll be hearing from my attorney.”

‘Dammit!’ Greg swore in his head. He’d been so close. Carson had been so close to some sort of slip up. He could arrest him for Robinson’s murder, and would have to if Carson walked out, but there was very little doubt that if he did Carson would lawyer up.

As Carson adjusted his jacket sleeve, Greg thought he saw a glint of gold around his left wrist.

Wisps of suggestion solidified into slightly less ephemeral ideas. If he was wrong, he’d be showing how weak their evidential base was. If he was right, this was the closest thing to a trump card he was going to get short of a miracle.

“Or is all this because Peter’s an Omega.”

Carson’s step hitched and he turned back from the door.

“Isn’t he?” Greg tossed the gold bracelet in its zip lock bag onto the desk.

“I don’t-”

“Do sit down.” For the second time that day Greg channelled Sherlock and Carson slowly returned to his seat.

“You-”

“Do you know the history of collaring a Sub, Mr Carson?” Greg asked pleasantly, voice hard. “Only given the number of Victorian antiques in your house I rather think you do. I happened to stumble across some while I was investigating that bracelet.”

“It’s a family trinket.” Carson bit out, lips pressed tightly together. “An heirloom. That’s all.”

“Originally,” Greg continued, “people only exchanged collars, yeah, but then engagements became longer and more common, a period of time for the couple to adjust to being Bound. Ah, but Doms wanted some form of visible claim on their Subs, especially the Omegas, so by the Victorian era it was fashionable for Doms to give their Subs make shift collars – bracelets to signify a lesser, but very real claim.”

“So?” Carson snapped.

“So those bracelets, identical to this one in every way, were always made of silver. Except for Omegas.” Greg smiled his best shark smile. “Apparently that’s why most collars to this day have gold Omega tags.”

“That’s not proof that-”

“Mr Carson,” Greg broke across him. “The hospital has already noted and is investigating irregularities in Peter’s blood work. What they’ll find, I have no doubt, is a very sophisticated suppressant, preventing Peter from displaying any symptoms of Estrus. Oh, yes, they exist, used extensively by the military, and as a pharmaceutical rep you would have been well placed to get hold of them.

“But Peter’s still young, his body’s still going through hormonal changes, trying to adjust. Omega’s hormonal levels don’t stabilise until around 25.” Greg went on, trying not to sound like he was slotting the pieces together as he said them. “So even though you had access to the suppressants you couldn’t properly calculate the correct dose. Too much would interfere with his development, maybe lead to infertility problems later, but under-dosing meant nights like the night at Illusion, where Peter covered himself with enough cologne to cause five people to independently comment, trying to hide the tell-tale pheromones as his body tried to go into Heat.”

Greg leant aggressively across his desk. “Only you can’t hide those pheromones from an Alpha, and Robinson was an Alpha, unlike all Peter’s friends. He would have recognised them as he brushed past, identified Peter for what he was, made some comment.

“You couldn’t have that, could you? All those years protecting Peter, getting the suppressants so he could have a real life. Some upstart Alpha couldn’t be allowed to spoil all that.

“But Peter didn’t see it that way did he?” Greg pulled the highlighted phone record out and laid it in front of Carson. “He wasn’t answering any of your calls. So you came down over night to talk to him. He saw you at King’s Cross after they left a friend there, came over to speak to you, ask you why you were back in London.

“He wasn’t appreciative, was he, Michael? After all that effort the little ingrate turned against you, told you to get out of his life, that he no longer wanted your protection, no longer wanted you.”

“The little bitch was **MINE!** ” Carson snapped and made to leap over the desk, face gone purple, arms outstretched as if to strangle Greg.

Sally, deliberately ignored by Greg and forgotten by Carson, grabbed him, copping a fist to the face for her efforts. The room filled with a rumbling growl as Carson, well beyond reason, flailed, trying to get free.

Greg stayed seated as, alerted to what was going on by the glass walls, two officers ran in to help Sally. It wasn’t the first time he’d been attacked during interrogation and he’d learnt over time the best way to retain the psychological high ground was to remain where he sat and let others wrestle the suspect down.

One of the officers, Gregson, after copping some rather painful jabs Greg was amused to note, managed to get handcuffs on Carson and the three forced him to hold still.

“Robinson.” Greg said firmly, maintaining eye contact with Carson and a raised chin.

“Poaching bastard.” Carson swore. A glob of spit flew from his mouth and landed on Greg’s desk. “He was _mine_. My Omega. How dare he talk to him, proposition him. He’s mine!”

“So you killed him.” Greg remarked flatly.

“He touched _my_ Omega.” Carson thrashed around, making the three Doms holding him to tighten their grip.

“So you killed him.” Greg repeated.

“Yes!” Carson yelled. He managed to elbow Johnson in the solar plexus and the sergeant automatically let go to curl in on himself. Sally and Gregson tightened their own holds until Johnson collected himself. “That bastard doesn’t get my children, my Omega.”

Greg felt nauseous.

“And Peter?” He asked. He knew he needed Carson to say it for the tape, but he wanted him gone, out of his sight.

There was a slight glimmer of guilt, quickly lost among the anger.

“He was mine. If I couldn’t have him, no one else would touch the slut either.”

“Get him out of here.” Greg knew he should press more, but he couldn’t sit there and look at Carson any longer.

“Michael Carson, you are under arrest for…” Sally’s voice was lost among the scrape of furniture and scuffle as the three manoeuvred him towards the door.

“Carson.” Greg interrupted, unable to stay silent and let the insane Beta believe he had at least achieved something. Johnson, Gregson and Sally obligingly held him still until Carson quieted too and Greg could continue. “Robinson died because you believed there was someone else in Peter’s life. You were right, there is. Robinson was a sleaze, but it wasn’t him. You killed the wrong Alpha, and I want you to go away knowing that he and Peter are going to be very happy together now you’re gone.”

The roar of fury prefaced a renewed struggle, but once out the door more officers joined the escort and Carson was marched out of the bullpen.

Greg stopped the tape with shaking fingers, carefully extracting it, labelling it, and storing it for later use. He then stood, walked to the bathroom, and was thoroughly sick.

Sally walked in while he was washing his face, completely ignoring the fact it was the male bathroom.

“I didn’t actually think he was… I just thought…” Greg heaved again and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth as his stomach continued to roll. “Family Alphas are always protective of Omegas, stake a pseudo-claim to look after them. I just assumed, even though he was a Beta…”

“He’s insane.” Sally said flatly. “Sick in the head. Peter Carson was his nephew.”

Greg pressed his hand against his mouth again and didn’t say anything, didn’t admit how much worse the thought was because Peter was an Omega. He only hoped that the abuse, he couldn’t call it a relationship, hadn’t gone too far, that Peter hadn’t actually been pressed into _service_. It was unlikely given Michael Carson had kept him on suppressants, but the idea of anyone abusing an Omega that way made his body rebel again, though nothing further came up.

“It’s an Alpha thing, isn’t it?” Sally asked as he ran the tap again. “Gregson made a similar bathroom dash after we dropped Carson off in holdings.”

Greg nodded, arms trembling.

Sally watched him a bit longer.

“How did you know?” She eventually asked.

Greg tied to shake his head and shrug at the same time.

“I guessed.” He admitted bluntly. “It just fit. The bracelet, the hospital. We said, remember, way back that it was rather an overreaction talking to Car-Peter and Robinson ending up dead, just like that, and Daniel Hill was frantic, beyond normal levels of upset for an injured Sub he wasn’t even Domming, not really.”

“Do you think he knows?” Sally asked quietly.

Greg shook his head and straightened. “No, not consciously. He’d never have allowed an Omega to face the kind of danger Peter was worried about on his own, but I think he subconsciously recognised it, imprinted on him a bit. I wouldn’t be surprised if they Bond during Peter’s next cycle, once he’s off the meds.”

“If he wakes up.” Sally sighed.

“If he wakes up.” Greg nodded, flicking the remaining water droplets from his hands.

They were still shaking, he noticed, and his knees a little too.

Sally ripped some paper towel off the roll and held it out to him with an exasperated sigh. She didn’t let go when he reached for it, studying him with narrowed eyes.

“Why didn’t you Dom him?” She asked. “When he tried to take a swing at you?”

Her own black eye was starting to colour up and looked puffy. Gregson’s was going to look a treat.

“Come on, Donovan.” Greg grabbed the towel out of her hand, tamping down all reaction to her words. It was the closest anyone had ever come to calling him on his lack of Dominance, but at least it was a fight he was accustomed to waging. “He was still in custody. I don’t want that sick fuck using any excuse to get off.”

Sally nodded once, sharply, but didn’t lose the gaze. Greg knew she was still searching for an explanation; possibly identifying dots that he didn’t want anyone to realise were dots, let alone connect them.

“Besides, I’m a pathetic Dom, you know that.” He casually lobbed the crumpled paper into the bin. “You would have managed better than me.”

“True.” Sally relaxed slightly, unconsciously loosening her shoulders as she accepted his argument.

A constable blundered into the bathroom without looking and froze halfway through unzipping as he noticed Sally standing casually next to the sink.

“Maybe we’d better…” Greg pushed her towards the door, steeling weak legs as he went to step.

The walk back to their desks was conducted in a stunned disbelieving silence. Somehow they’d actually managed it, managed more in fact because Michael Carson would be going down for more than murder and attempted murder if Greg had anything to say about it.

They slowed to a stop outside Greg’s office door where Greg leant a surreptitious hand on the door frame. The mounds of paper work glared balefully up at him and he had to bite his lip to stop himself groaning. Sally was sending similar aggrieved looks at her own desk and had subtly placed herself so she was leaning on the wall without seeming like it.

It was entirely probable, Greg realised, that the shaking and general weakness wasn’t only a psychological response to the brutalisation of an Omega, but was a physiological response to his body reaching the end of its adrenaline high and shutting down. He and Sally were pushing 48 hours on too much caffeine and no sleep, and 72 hours on too much caffeine and very little sleep. At least this time, he supposed, they’d eaten properly so the caffeine hangover shouldn’t be too bad.

“I suppose we should…” Sally trailed off.

“Sod it.” Greg pushed off the wall. “We’ve been going for three days, the earliest he can be before a magistrate for bail is Monday, and it’s Friday. Go home and ice that eye.”

“But-”

“That’s an order, Sergeant. Get your arse out of here, or else. I’m heading home too.”

As soon as he said it a wave of exhaustion swept over Greg, carrying with it the need to be home, home, home with Mycroft. Home with _his_ Omega, so he could burrow into his scent and rest shielded away from the world.

Sally opened her mouth to argue out of form, but closed it without a word as she sagged against her prop.

“Home sounds brilliant.” She admitted wearily. “With some takeaway so I can eat, bathe and sleep for a week.”

“Can’t give you a week, but I can try to give you a weekend.” Greg promised, knowing it wasn’t really up to them whether their mobiles went off and they were called in.

“Take what I can get.” Sally pushed off the wall and headed over to her desk to pack up. She was swaying ever so slightly as she walked, clearly reaching the end of her endurance.

Greg ignored the papers all over his desk and grabbed his coat, scarf and gloves. The sticky note reminded him to collect his towel and dirty clothing, just, and ignoring all costs he flagged down a shockingly available taxi cab to go home.

Inside he tried desperately to keep his eyes open, but now that his body was crashing it was crashing fast. He stumbled out and had to have the cabbie repeat the fare three times before his muddled brain could come close to understanding. The door presented its own unique challenge, and Greg was pretty sure with one attempt at getting the key in the lock he actually gouged the paint, but eventually he managed.

By ‘eventually he managed’, the door opened for him, a quizzical Mrs Potts standing on the other side.

She took a few blinks to come into focus.

“Oh you poor dear.” She clucked. “You look absolutely done in.”

She bustled him through the door and had his bag of laundry out of Greg’s hands before he’d managed to properly work out he was inside. Home. Where Mycroft would be in a couple of hours.

My, My, My. The name thrummed through Greg’s body with every beat. He needed Mycroft. Needed to see him, hold him. There was a hollow pang down his left side and he felt so empty, so alone.

“Come on dearie, get those shoes off.”

He was in his room, he realised belatedly, Mrs Potts herding him to the bed like a mothering sheepdog.

“You’ll feel better after a nap. All the same, the whole lot of you. Work yourselves into the ground, again and again. Why it’s a wonder the whole lot of you aren’t sick more often.”

He wanted to be in _Mycroft’s_ room, _their_ room; needed to be where he could smell the comforting scent of his love, but Greg was gently pushed on the bed and Mrs Potts bent down to help with his shoes. Unable to stand for that, Greg toed them off, ignoring the disapproving tutting.

“That’s better, now coat off...or not, but you’d be more comfortable without it. No, never mind.”

Greg slumped down on his pillows, half listening to the voice saying things, mostly wishing inside that he was in Mycroft’s room, surrounded by his scent, but he was too tired now to move. Sitting on the bed had apparently been his body’s Waterloo and toeing off his shoes his last resistance.

He tried to curl up around the echoing empty space, but his body wouldn’t move. He closed his eyes, but his brain was chasing itself in increasingly stuttering circles, refusing to stop, stop, stop. For no rational reason Greg felt hot tears pricking the corners of his eyes.

‘You’re exhausted.’ The very small coherent part of his mind told him. ‘It’s been half a week and too much caffeine since you slept. You’re so tired you can’t sleep.’

Greg held back a choked sob and forced his eyes closed. He’d been here before, this certainly wasn’t the first time he’d pushed himself to this point where tiredness was almost the same as dropping, and knew all he could do was lie there until his mind gave out and joined his body. Waiting for that, there was nothing he could do except breathe, trying to ignore the occasional tear that broke free and ran down his face.

He didn’t know how much later it was, didn’t know if he was half awake or in a dream, when his bedroom door silently swung open.

In his dream, in his mind, in reality, he could see Mycroft standing in his doorway, suit and features blurred by slit like eyes or dream haziness. He knew he wanted Mycroft, wanted a touch, to be held. He knew he tried to reach with powerless limbs. He could hear himself calling in his mind, yelling for Mycroft to hear him, knowing that the sounds weren’t making it out of his mouth as, whether in the real world or his dream, Mycroft quietly closed the door and left.

This time Greg managed to curl up, wrapping his limbs around the hard emptiness and painful aloneness lodged in his chest.

He didn’t know whether it had been a dream or not, but in his half there state as the tears fell, it didn’t matter and this time he didn’t try to stop the burn.


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Afternoon all.
> 
> Next chapter. I've just re-read it all myself, to get back into writing the next Part, so hopefully I'll be able to report some progress there for you soon.
> 
> No warnings for this chapter.

Waking was heralded by crusty eyes, aching muscles and a throbbing head. There were also: sunshine, cars, and an annoying bird perched what felt like right next to Greg’s head. At that time, the former were more important than the latter.

Except maybe the bird.

His legs had stiffened while he slept, glutes aching from the enforced curl. Fingers scrubbed at his eyes, dislodging the overnight build up and massaging drawn skin. His eyes felt tight and swollen as if he’d been crying. Greg had the vague recollection of the feeling of crying in a dream. He couldn’t remember what it was about, just that he’d felt empty, and apparently it had been enough to cry in reality.

Quiet cracks and pops sounded all over Greg’s body as he stood and stretched. He hadn’t been cold last night that he remembered despite sleeping on top of the covers, though that might, he admitted, have something to do with the fact he’d fallen asleep in his overcoat, rumpled suit and all, mobile phone pressed uncomfortably against his leg in the pocket.

He pulled it out and plugged it in, battery well and truly dead.

His wristwatch said it was ten o’clock. In the morning.

Greg blinked. Apparently he’d been asleep for sixteen hours.

His nose informed him he smelt like it.

His stomach grumbled to remind him that it was over twenty hours since he last ate.

Greg sighed and ran his hand the wrong way through his hair. It was a habitual sound rather than an exasperated or upset one, and he hummed lightly as he threw his coat and suit jacket on the bed.

Shower. Kitchen. Food.

By the time Greg, feeling like a whole new man, made it to the kitchen the humming was accompanied by thigh slapping drums and a slightly dodgy sock-slide in accompaniment of his mental sound track.

“I thought I heard you up and moving about.”

Greg froze mid-twirl as Mrs Potts’s motherly flutterings broke into his little mental world. Significant amounts of blood headed north and Greg went bright red.

“Morning.” He managed.

“Good morning.” There was a knowing twinkle in her eye as she pressed a glass of juice into his hands in her no nonsense manner. Greg supposed over the years with the Holmes brothers growing up she’d seen much worse than his bad dancing.

“Now,” she continued, bustling around the kitchen to fill a plate for him. “Just you sit down and eat. Neglecting yourself, running yourself ragged working those kind of hours, it’s just not right young man, pushing until you collapse.”

It had been a long time since Greg had considered himself young, but he’d learnt by now not to interrupt Mrs Potts.

“The both of you! I despair, I have to say. You working through the night, then Master Mycroft getting called in to work this morning, on a Saturday!”

“Mycroft’s at work?” Greg asked, swallowing his poorly timed mouthful of juice to ask.

“Yes, went in this morning. His young lady looked so unhappy at having to come get him, he’s supposed to be resting, but apparently needs must.”

A plate appeared in front of Greg, filled to the brim with sausages, tomatoes, mushrooms, bacon and spinach. Two slices of crusty bread appeared at his elbow.

“No eggs, I’m afraid dear. Master Mycroft can’t stand them in his condition, always strange what the body rejects, and they don’t keep well in the warmer anyway.” Mrs Potts patted his shoulder apologetically and continued with her verbal and physical bustle. “Of course, it must have been important for her to come get him on the weekend. She’s been trying so hard to get him to cut back, doing so much extra herself to make up the difference, and I know it really bothered her to have to fetch him after all that effort.”

Greg ate a mouthful of bacon and reminded himself that he was a big enough Alpha to let Mycroft be taken care of by whomever Mycroft let take care of him. The most important part was that Mycroft was being taken care of.

He took another mouthful and tried not to feel hurt that no one seemed to see that it was his job to care for Mycroft and make sure he was okay. Even if they said he wasn’t doing a good job, which he admitted he hadn’t really been, it would be less painful than the fact no one considered it his responsibility at all.

Yes, the three day work crisis probably disqualified him from ‘Partner of the Year’, but Mycroft was still pregnant with _his_ baby.

He would be the bigger person. He would be happy people cared about Mycroft, were making sure he was fine.

He would.

“Anyway, now you’re up I’ll be off.” Mrs Potts undid the stings on her apron and flapped it out before folding. “You’ll have the house to yourself for a bit to relax. Master Mycroft’ll be back for dinner.”

“Did he say that?” Greg perked up a little.

It would be nice to speak to Mycroft, to have an actual conversation after almost a whole week, and he’d assumed any crisis severe enough for Anthea to call Mycroft into work would go all night.

“Oh, no, of course not.” Mrs Potts fluttered around the kitchen, fixing imperfections Greg couldn’t even see as she readied herself to go. “But his young lady and I have an understanding and she gave me the look. As long as the news doesn’t report the breakout of nuclear war, you can be sure he’ll be back for dinner, she’ll see to it. Very efficient that girl, and supremely reliable.”

She’s not his young lady, Greg wanted to scream. She’s his PA, she works for him, nothing more.

Not anymore.

Instead he smiled and nodded “She is indeed.”

“Master Mycroft wouldn’t settle for anything less.” Mrs Potts swirled her coat over her shoulders and tied an old fashioned floral headscarf over her hair. “Right then, that’s me. Just leave the suit out, Dove, and I’ll get it dry cleaned Monday, and make sure there are lots of vegetables with dinner.”

With a last maternal pat on the shoulder she swept out the door, leaving Greg and his half eaten plate of food. His stomach rumbled again, so he ate, forcing his shoulders to relax with every mouthful. By the end of the meal he’d recaptured most of the light satisfied feeling he’d had that morning before breakfast and he made sure to hum loudly while dealing with his plate, not caring it was off key.

The whole house to himself for the day.

The opening bars to London Calling drifted through his head.

His stereo was the first thing he unpacked, giving it pride of place on top of one of the empty bookshelves. He left the speakers next to the main unit, they’d have to be sorted later once he figured out the best spots for them, and threw The Clash, The Kinks and The Sex Pistols into the CD stacker.

In defiance of an empty house, he turned it on _loud_.

Sorting his boxes was slow work, interrupted by frequent bouts of air guitar, drum solos and impromptu karaoke. Most of it was fairly simple, clothing hung or folded and stored away in drawers and the wardrobe, books stacked on the shelf in Greg’s own unique organisational structure that would probably make no sense to anyone else, CD’s carefully arranged by genre, artist, and date of release. Greg dithered slightly over the records before deciding to keep them with him rather than take them up to the music or TV rooms and stored them carefully in the window seat. The record player he attempted to squeeze between the wardrobe and the window seat.

It was a tight fit, but he managed. Just.

The pile on the bed, where he was throwing or placing all the things he didn’t know what to do with, was starting to take over the massive space. Lots of it was photographs, the majority was knick knacks – bookmarks, key chains, a rubrics cube and assorted other junk. There was a pink bear he’d been given by a little girl they’d rescued from a frightened junkie trying to hold her hostage. Resting half under a framed photo was a bundle of cards, drawings and letters he’d been sent by children whose families had been in some way affected. Some read ‘Thank you for saving me’ in their best child’s handwriting. Others said ‘Thank you for finding Mummy (or Daddy or PePe)’.Greg smiled as he brushed his thumb along the edge of the stack. Those had been the good cases – the ones they got everyone home.

He collected up the photo frames, intending to put them out, and paused.

Did he really want these on display? There were a couple of him and his family, but he hadn’t been very close to his Da and had always had a strained relationship with his Ma. She’d made all the right movements, worried in a textbook fashion over his soul, but she’d been relieved when he’d left for London.

His siblings didn’t even bear mentioning.

There was a nice one of him and his uncle, smiling together at Greg’s graduation from the police academy. The older Alpha was grey haired, which may have just come from the Lestrade bad hair genes, and gaunt, which had definitely come from the cancer. Despite the fact that in five months Greg would be attending his funeral, Pierre Lestrade’s smile was blazingly alive, an arm slung around Greg’s shoulders in a proud hug, not for support.

He was the only family member who had come, despite Greg sending invites as a matter of form.

He was the only one Greg had really wanted there.

The rest of the frames held pictures of him and Josephine. Did he really want them up here? This was his new life, not the lingering day to day slog he’d been in danger of falling into. There was no reason to make his room into a shrine for a relationship he’d never really been invested in and was long over.

He packed the photos back in the box, all except the photo of his uncle. That he weighed in his hand, deciding whether the bittersweet feelings it evoked were worth it.

He placed it upright next to the bed.

He was a police officer. Everything was bittersweet.

Greg sorted through the remaining detritus strewed over the covers. The bundle of papers was carefully stored in the window seat next to the records and Greg vowed, again, in another burst of sentimentality, to get a proper storage box for them. The teddy bear was supposed to be stacked next to them, but in the throes of emotion Greg nestled it among the overabundance of cushions on top of the seat. The pink clashed horribly with the artfully selected colours and made Greg smile.

The rest of the scrap was tossed in one of the bedside table drawers, where it would probably never be looked at again. He should throw it all out, but no one ever did that.

Bed clear so he could sit on the edge, he pulled the next box closer and ripped off the tape. More clothes, roughly shoved away, and underneath…

Greg didn’t try to resist the sappy smile that spread across his face as he lifted one of the carefully supported snow globes from the box.

The abundance of cushioning surrounding the globes belied the cheap construction and materials. The dense plastic could probably have bounced down the staircase and smashed into the marble floor without so much as a crack, but Greg still handled it gently, shaking it lightly to stir up the white flakes.

This was his favourite one.

Chicago.

Snow globes weren’t really Greg’s thing, he’d certainly never intended to end up collecting them, but every single one of these was precious as every single one had been a present from Mycroft.

Greg understood the theory. The globes were easily acquired at the airport, so there was no disruption to Mycroft’s hectic schedule, and came in a variety of neutral designs so other than some minor adjustments to remove the name of the place, they were able to be gifted without any security concerns.

He didn’t have one for every trip, but he did have quite a collection.

He shook Chicago again and watched the ‘snow’ swirl around the Tribune Tower inside. This was the only one unaltered with name intact and a distinctive landmark replicated inside.

Reverently he placed the globe on top of the bookshelf next to the stereo.

It wasn’t the item itself. It certainly wasn’t its value. It was that for the last three years Mycroft had brought him souvenirs because he could, to make Greg smile.

He’d asked as a joke, teased Mycroft for running away from the debate they’d had going over a topic Greg now couldn’t remember. Mycroft had demurred, denied it with a smile, saying he was only giving Greg some time to come up with logical arguments. Greg had refused to believe him, laughingly insisted that Mycroft wasn’t going anywhere other than his office to hide in defeat.

Mycroft had returned with the first unmarked snow globe as proof of his journey and presented it with an arrogant smirk. Greg could still remember the warm flush as he took his gift from the long fingers, stunned and gratified that Mycroft had, among all his important meetings, thought of Greg and their silly little debate.

In retrospect, Greg could admit that was probably when he’d first started to fall in love.

Each globe was carefully removed and arranged on the top of the bookshelf, Asian themed globes collecting next to Middle Eastern, Pacific and South American ones.

The CD finished and the player swung back to The Clash.

The bottom of the box was full of books, sorted quickly onto shelves. The next box held his bathroom contents, which he shuffled into the next room and sorted into the drawers, never expected to use much of it again. There was a possibility that the hair gel might get another look in, but it was unlikely now. Not at his age.

At the bottom of that box was his jewellery. Greg wiped over the case with a towel and carried it back into his room. He opened it, slid in his earing, and stored the box in his bedside table.

Maybe he’d wear some of it again. Here at home. See Mycroft’s reaction.

The next box was DVDs. There was a moment of indecision before Greg began stacking them on an empty shelf. They probably should go in the TV room, but Greg didn’t feel quite right about that. Plus if they were here he could easily access them when Mycroft was away and he couldn’t sleep. His ancient laptop would function easily as a DVD/TV player to wile away those long and, Greg already knew, sleepless nights.

He picked up his _Yes, Prime Minister_ , but didn’t put it on the shelf.

It had been ages since he and Mycroft had spent some quality casual time together. Their last attempt had ended up with a fantastic session and sex, and an awkward rift Greg preferred NOT to think about, and it had been quite some time before that that they’d succeeded.

Greg had barely been home for three days. Mycroft wasn’t home today and had no firm arrival time. Perfect for casual takeaway and some movies.

In which case Mycroft would want to watch this.

He put the DVD to the side, safely on his pillow out of the danger zone in case he threw more stuff on the bed, and kept going. A box and a half later, Greg finally noticed his stomach growling. A glance at his watch told him it was past three, making breakfast a decent time ago. He could plough through until dinner, finish the last few boxes and then take a nap, but other than ‘he’ll be back for dinner’ Greg didn’t know when Mycroft would be returning and when dinner would be. Much better to eat now, just in case dinner turned out to be late.

 _Should I stay_ _or should I go_ still playing in his head, Greg bounded energetically down the stairs.

“Oh, hey.” Greg stopped in front of the library door. “I didn’t realise you were back.”

Mycroft, still in his suit though the jacket was nowhere to be seen, was laid out along the leather couch, stocking-ed feet delicately crossed at the ankle. For any other person this position would have looked stiff and uncomfortable; for Mycroft it was practically a sprawl.

At Greg’s words, the book slowly lowered to Mycroft’s chest and a polite eyebrow quizzically arched.

“You should have let me know, I’d’ve…um…” Greg trailed off at the utterly impassive look on Mycroft’s face.

“Well, I, uh, I was thinking tonight we could…” Greg broke off. “What’s wrong?”

“Wrong? Nothing’s wrong, Gregory.”

Greg didn’t believe it, not when Mycroft was using That tone of voice. That tone of voice had only been heard by him once before, when Mycroft was beside Greg and Sherlock’s hospital beds after a building had fallen on them, pre-John. That tone was a mixture of cold anger, restrained fury, utter disappointment, and enormous levels of repression.

That tone meant Greg had fucked up big time.

“Ah, well, I…” Greg stumbled, trying frantically to work out what on earth had happened.

Last time Mycroft’s tempter had frozen so close to the surface, and eventually bubbled free in bursts of glacial yelling, Sherlock had borrowed Mycroft’s security pass to get them into the database that led them to the building that then fell on their heads. Greg hadn’t known that going in and had only too readily agreed to never steal Mycroft’s clearance again, given he’d never wanted to abuse it in the first place.

Sherlock had been more sullen and had eventually agreed not to get in the way of any more government security operations, which was at the end of the day what Mycroft was so pissed off about, though Sherlock never did give any such undertaking regarding Mycroft’s ID.

That had required more explanation, Greg not having been told anything by Sherlock beforehand and not able to deduce it from Mycroft’s appearance, but apparently they’d blundered across and through an MI6 operation preventing it getting off the ground, let alone achieve its aims, all to catch a minor thug and almost be buried by a building. By the end of that icy exchange Greg had wanted to hide under the hospital bed.

It had taken a number of months and a snow globe before Greg had felt comfortable around Mycroft again.

“Um, are you _sure_ everything’s…fine?” Greg hedged.

“I’m perfectly well, thank you. How have you been?”

Mycroft had this unnerving ability to hold absolutely still, eyes forward and trained on Greg’s face. He didn’t seem to blink.

“Um, busy, work was hectic. Closed a case. That was unexpected. It just sort of… fell through for us.” Greg tried not to jiggle his foot while thinking fervently of any possible government links to his acts over the last three days, any possible anything he may have stumbled across or upset. He couldn’t think of anything.

“Indeed.” Mycroft’s tone was even.

“Yeah, ended up working crazy hours last few days.” Greg babbled, trying to figure out what had happened.

“I noticed.” Mycroft’s voice could have frozen lava and there was a slight twitch next to his right eye.

A slight suspicion blossomed in Greg’s gut. This couldn’t possibly be because…

“Yeah, didn’t get home night before last. Had paperwork coming out of my ears so I stayed at the Yard.” Greg remarked conversationally, watching Mycroft closely.

He didn’t need to have been watching closely.

“Oh is _that_ where you were?” Mycroft asked rhetorically, voice more heated, but no warmer. “I had no idea.”

“Yes, you did.” Greg leant on the doorway he was still standing in. “Or you could have. The information was all at your fingertips I’m sure. If you didn’t know it’s because you didn’t want to.”

“Yes, I could have been informed by my _staff_.” Mycroft’s sentence ended heavily on the last word, making Greg wince.

Okay, maybe he should have texted to say he’d be late/wouldn’t make it home. He was just used to living alone where there was no one to inform, and this was an overreaction, surely?

“I was busy, Mycroft, it slipped my mind.”

Mycroft’s shoulders subtly broadened and his head tilted so even though he hadn’t moved from his supine position on the sofa, he was looking at Greg down his nose.

A small part of Greg flinched, but after three days of stress and standing on his rank in front of strangers the much more substantial part of Greg felt inclined to growl and push back.

“It’s my job, Mycroft, you know the kinds of hours I keep.” Greg squared his shoulders in automatic response. “It’s not like you told me you were going to be gone today.”

“I’m a Dominant.” Mycroft bit out in clipped syllables. “I don’t have to inform you of anything.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Greg growled. “Just which one of us is the Alpha and not pregnant here, Mycroft?”

“That’s not the point.” Mycroft hissed.

“Oh, so what is the point exactly? That now that _you_ know I’m a Sub I’m suddenly not fit for a job I’ve been doing for twenty years? I caught an absolutely fucked up, child abusive murderer yesterday-”

“Who almost had his hands around your throat!” Mycroft snarled. “You’re reckless and there’s no one there to look out for you because no one knows what you are!”

“It’s my job!” Greg snarled back.

He bit off the rest of his response. Angry as Mycroft was making him, it was obvious to anyone with half a brain Mycroft’s own fury was based in unexpected worry and hurt because _he_ hadn’t known what was going on and _he_ hadn’t been able to look after Greg.

Mycroft, Greg decided, was just like Sherlock. Whenever something got close enough to scare them, their childish reaction was to hit out at anyone in range. It took several deep, steadying breaths, but he managed to shunt his anger sideways enough to act like a mature, rational adult rather than a five year old.

“I’m sorry I didn’t text you to let you know I’d be caught up at the Yard and possibly not make it home these last few days.” Greg said placating. “I promise next time I’ll remember to tell you.”

“Why would you do that?” Mycroft’s face was a mixture of remote disdain and palpable disgust.

Greg counted to ten. Twice.

“You’re obviously unhappy I didn’t tell you this time.” He managed around clenched teeth.

“You’re a Submissive that no one knows about swanning around London putting yourself in harm’s way and running yourself into a state of total collapse with no Dominant to look after you if something goes wrong. What happens, Gregory, when you get too tired to stand up to another Alpha, or even your sergeant, and crumple? What happens if you’re taken to hospital for medication and have a reaction because no one knows?” The underlying anger flared so Mycroft was almost, but not quite, shouting the words before he regained control and resurrected the cold, distant mask.

Greg swallowed nervously, trying hard to suppress old fears Mycroft’s words stirred to the surface. There weren’t many of them, but there were some medications that couldn’t be given to Subs as something in the chemical compound sent them into a severe, debilitating, occasionally fatal, Subdrop. Unfortunately, they were very effective on Doms, so hospitals still used them especially for emergency surgeries when a Dom needed to be put down. It was the most likely way Greg’s secret would be revealed, most likely at the expense of his life, and one of his biggest fears.

“It’s my job.” He repeated quietly, unable to explain any better. “I’ll warn you next time and we can sign some form thing so you have medical authority.”

“Why?” Mycroft’s voice wasn’t cold, it was frozen. “You’re not my Submissive.”

The words hit Greg like a sack of bricks aimed at his solar plexus. He couldn’t take his eyes off Mycroft, hateful sneer curling one corner of the Dom’s mouth and perfect exclusory posture holding perfectly still in the face of what must have been Greg’s very visible reaction.

The words hurt.

They’d been meant to.

Greg’s hand gripped the doorframe for support, maybe to hold him up, maybe to hold him steady. It wasn’t anything he didn’t know, Mycroft had set that out right at the start, had made a point of it and Greg had agreed, but having the words callously thrown in his face _hurt_.

“No, I’m not.” Greg heard himself say. He felt empty.

He felt angry.

“Which means,” he snarled, “that you can just shut the fuck up because this has nothing to do with you.”

He pushed off the doorway and turned to leave, needing to get away.

Mycroft said nothing.

Greg took three steps before he whirled around and stormed back to the doorway.

“For your information,” he spat, “I was actually trying to ask whether you wanted to get takeaway and watch something tonight, but as I’m clearly such an inconvenience I’ll stay out of your way.”

Slamming the library door shut would have been satisfying, but as the door opened inwards Greg would have had to go into the room to reach it and the effect would have been lost. Instead he stormed off up the stairs and slammed the door to his room hard enough to rattle the snow globes.

Then he dug out his most punk CDs and turned the player up to full volume.

It was childish, but given the ripping pain in his chest that was fuelling his anger, he didn’t really care. He couldn’t cause Mycroft half the discomfort Mycroft had caused him in pain, but he could damn well try.

That posh arrogant Bastard. Greg pulled the next box towards him and proceeded to tear through it at an unbelievable rate of anger fuelled knots. That smarmy, charmless Iceman! Where did he get off, yelling at Greg for doing his job, for not telling Mycroft, and then saying none of it mattered anyway because Greg ‘wasn’t his Submissive’?

There were a couple more books at the bottom of the box, and taking them over to the bookshelf left him looking at the snow globes he’d been smiling over earlier. That time his reaction was to grab the nearest one and pelt it at the wall as hard as he could. It hit the edge of the wardrobe with a crack and rolled forcefully over the carpet before coming to a rest.

Throwing it had done nothing to ease the constriction in Greg’s chest or fill the _emptiness_ that was almost palpable. The hairline crack, visible when Greg picked it up, did the opposite and made his heart hammer faster and eyes prick with tears.

Tears of anger, he told himself. It was easy to believe it.

He opened his fist and let the globe fall to the carpet with a dull thud. It could fucking stay there.

He stalked past it and yanked open the wardrobe door.

Not Mycroft’s. Fine then.

His wadded up t-shirt impacted with the wall less spectacularly than the snow globe. The tracksuit and pants made even less impact again.

The black jeans were carefully stowed at the back at the back of the cupboard. This time he pulled them on, not bothering with pants underneath.

They fit better around the middle now. He’d toned up. Good.

He yanked out John and Sherlock’s Christmas present (John’s because John would have insisted they get something, and Sherlock’s because John would never have bought Greg a shirt, let alone a scarlet red one made of silk) and pulled out a black v-necked tee with it. He tucked them in given there was room, allowing the red shirt to billow out around his waist. The overall effect he hoped was to draw attention to exactly how fit he’d become.

He didn’t bother with the cuffs.

He did pull out his necklace.

The bathroom mirror showed it sitting neatly in the t-shirt’s v-neck, framed by the black t-shirt and open scarlet silk. It sat low enough it would never be mistaken for even the strangest of collars, but it was suggestive. Provocative.

He ran gel coated fingers through his hair.

Back in his room he pulled on his leather boots and collected his trusty leather jacket. He debated the stereo, but left it on. Mycroft could bestir himself to turn it off when the neighbours complained.

On his way to the front door he kept his head resolutely forward.

“Where are you going?” Came Mycroft’s voice from his left, still in the library.

Greg kept his eyes pinned firmly on the door he was opening.

“Not your Submissive.” He parroted back at Mycroft in a singsong lilt before anger turned his voice hard. “None of your _fucking_ business.”

This time he did slam the door.


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Evening all! 
> 
> I know so many of you are looking forward to getting to see Greg out prowling, but sadly that just doesn't really fit with my mental picture of him for this (In his forties, expecting father, and lifelong closet sub not fond of one night stands...). So instead we get this. Sigh, apologies all, but you get John and some world explanation instead. 
> 
> Warnings for discussions of past story events and how they fit into the world.

Greg hammered insistently on the door and tried to remind himself that the individuals of this building hadn’t done anything wrong.

Yet.

“Hang on a tick.” Bellowed back a slightly rough voice.

Footsteps thudded across the floor and the door opened to reveal a very rumpled John Watson whose button up was buttoned up the wrong way.

Evidently he’d interrupted.

Greg tried to feel guilty and failed. He was too angry to feel guilty.

“Greg! Are you here about the case file? Only – or just come on in.” John changed his tack as Greg pushed past without waiting for an invitation and threw himself into Sherlock’s chair with a reasonable approximation of one of his sulks. “Would you like a drink? I’m guessing not tea.”

Greg kept scowling off into the middle distance.

“Beer it is.” John fetched one from the fridge and brought it over. “Back in a minute.”

In fact John was ten minutes and when he re-emerged shutting the bedroom door quietly behind him he was wearing a new, correctly buttoned shirt.

“You’re dressed up tonight.” He remarked lightly, fetching his own beer and plopping down in the matching armchair.

Greg grunted.

“Right…” John flicked the TV on, setting the volume low. It gave them both somewhere to rest their eyes that wasn’t each other.

“Glad the shirt fits.” John tried again.

Greg grunted and took a swig of beer.

“I guess that lead Sally called about panned out, cause you didn’t come back for the file.” John took his own drink. “Things get hectic?”

Greg’s shoulders relaxed a little without his say so as he realised John wasn’t going to leap right onto the problem, which even a blind person could see had something to do with Mycroft.

“Yeah it panned out.” Greg’s throat felt gummed up so he took another swig. “Turns out our club murder and our assault on a young Sub were connected.”

“Yeah?” John asked. “Drugs, gangs, revenge…?”

“Overly protective uncle.”

“Ah,” John nodded. “That does happen.”

“Yeah.” Greg let the silence fall, his stomach quivering slightly at the memories. He wondered how long that would last.

“Only this guy,” he eventually continued, “was sick, not protective. I thought… we’ve talked about Alpha protectiveness, even I feel it, so I didn’t think it’d be that different for a Beta Dom.”

“It was?” John sounded slightly surprised, so maybe Greg hadn’t been alone in his assumptions.

“Very.” Greg drank a mouthful of beer to cover his reflexive swallow. “Turns out the Uncle wasn’t meaning in the familial sense when he said mine. More like the biblical.”

“That’s sick.” John said flatly. “That’s just… wrong.”

Greg nodded and said nothing. They both drank their beers.

“Is the kid… how’s he coping?” John asked.

“He’s in a coma.” Greg sighed. “Doctors are hopeful, but…”

“Do you… do you have any idea…” John paused, trying to find a delicate way to say it.

“How far his Uncle went? No.” Greg shook his head. “But it turns out the nephew’s a suppressed Omega, Uncle put him on the suppressants, so I’d say he hasn’t moved things… that far. He’s an Alpha wannabe; he’d want the first time to be during the kid’s Heat. I hope.”

John looked absolutely shocked and revolted, and Greg didn’t miss the way his throat was working, fingers clenching convulsively on the beer bottle.

“Go throw up if you need to.” He said bluntly. “I did. So did Gregson.”

“It’s the automatic response of an Alpha’s body to a…” John stopped and took a few deep breaths. “I’ll be fine.” His voice sounded very full.

They sat there a few moments before John stood. He didn’t, as Greg had thought, go into the bathroom, but instead disappeared into the bedroom leaving the door slightly ajar, presumably by accident. There was the faint squeak of bedsprings and a sleepy murmur of voices.

The longing to hold his Omega and reassure himself swept through Greg’s body. The empty, lonesome pangs he’d been successfully subverting were back and stronger.

Hold, reassure, protect.

Greg locked his body in place, refusing to curl up and hug his knees like a child.

He blamed pheromones.

John didn’t stay away for long, maybe two minutes, and came back via the fridge fetching more beers.

“I’m glad he was on suppressants.” John’s voice was drawn. “That would have been hell for him.”

“I think being forced into that position would be awful for anyone.”

The idea of it being an Omega was instinctively revolting, but the thought of any kid going through that was just as repellent to Greg’s mind.

John shook his head, fingers holding the beer bottle tight, staring at the TV.

“No, if he’d gone into Heat… just no.” There was a tremor in his left hand, lying flat on the couch. “Everyone knows Omegas need an Alpha during Heat, need a knot, but no one ever thinks…” He took a large mouthful of beer.

“Is it that bad?” Greg asked carefully. There were lines he’d never seen around John’s eyes before, and no matter how John clenched and unclenched it his left hand wouldn’t stop trembling. “Omegas go through Heat alone all the time with no knot.”

“It’s torture.” John’s voice was wooden. “The body reacts to the intercourse, increasing the hormonal levels the way it doesn’t do if an Omega’s alone, but there’s no satisfaction, just constant stimulation for days.”

“You’ve seen it?”

It wasn’t really a question. John was determinedly staring at the TV and Greg didn’t think 2 minute noodles were creating the tight angry look around his eyes.

“In Afghanistan… The Taliban used to... it’s horrific.” John moved his left hand, hid it from view. “They used to use it as punishment for various offences, not even usually by the Omega. Punishing an Omega was viewed as punishing the whole community, so it was usually for something done by their family, someone in the village… They’d do it in gangs so there was no stopping and never any relief.”

Greg swallowed. John stared through the TV.

“Patrols would come across them every now and then, either the victims or in progress. It’s a _traditional_ act; even in the controlled areas it happened just like the honour killings. We couldn’t stop it,” John’s eyes flashed, “but none of the Betas discovered to have been involved ever lived. The army is too full of Alphas for that, if the Afghani Alphas from the relevant village didn’t get there first.”

“I’ll bet.” Greg murmured. He didn’t doubt there had been a number of mysterious deaths of subjects connected with these rapes that NATO commanders had turned a blind eye to.

“Never saw it myself, but Patrols would bring victims in. The ones found During were best off. After the killing frenzy was sated one of the Alphas on the patrol would usually spend time with them. The suppressants generally stopped bloodshed within the unit as to whom, though there were certainly fights about it back at base. Few people got transferred. More than a few Bondings out of it, something about the high adrenaline environment. The ones we didn’t find until After, who never got an Alpha, were worse off.”

“How bad?” Greg croaked.

“2 in 5 to insanity, 4 in 5 to suicide.” John replied flatly.

Greg’s own hands were shaking he realised, as he slopped beer over his t-shirt, luckily missing the silk.

“Thank Christ then.” He attempted another drink and managed to get most of the beer into his mouth. He hadn’t realised how narrow an escape Peter Carson had had.

Cars raced across the screen as buxom women tried to sell them to the public. Cereal was advertised to children. An ad for a new kid’s movie flashed in bright colours. Then the ads finished and some child’s TV program resumed playing.

Greg had forgotten how early it was. It was still light outside.

“Peter, the kid’s, got an Alpha.” He said into the silence watching some sparkly character dance across the screen making flowers light up as she touched them. “Carson, the uncle, was so desperate to remove the Alpha encroaching on his territory he never even checked who it was. Killed the wrong one, just some guy who spoke to Peter at the club. He didn’t, doesn’t, know Peter’s an Omega. Doesn’t know anything actually, I’ll have to tell to him. Seems a good kid, totally devoted despite the fact Peter wasn’t even Subbing for him, not really. He’ll be good to him.”

“If he wakes up.”

“If he wakes up.”

They sat there in silence for a bit longer, watching the flowers come to life and join in a happy, colourful dance. Greg felt lighter, despite the heavy press of emotions and the incipient anger smouldering under his breastbone. He hadn’t realised how much the case had been weighing him down, how much he did actually need to talk to someone who could understand on more than an intellectual level.

Slowly the lines around John’s eyes eased and he let his left hand come back onto the arm of the chain. Guilt at stirring up obviously painful war memories conflicted with Greg’s feelings of relief.

“It’s okay.” John toned softly, eyes following the path of the fish that had inexplicably replaced the flowers. “It gets better over time. Talking about it helps a little.”

“It never goes away, though, does it?” Greg asked curiously.

“No. It fades most of the time, the back of your mind, but it never goes.” John shook himself and finally turned his eyes back to Greg. “I wouldn’t want it to.”

Greg nodded. He could understand, sort of. For every letter of thanks stored in his window seat there was an unsolved case file in his desk he kept going back to or a mental record of a time he’d been too late, a list of bodies never identified, of failures to bring closure.

Someone had to remember.

After a while, remembering defined you.

“So is he going to come out?” Greg jerked his head at the bedroom door to change the subject.

John shook his head. “I’d only just got him all the way down when you arrived. Dragging him straight back up would be… bad.”

Greg winced in agreement.

“I brought him up as far as was safe. He’s cognisant, if he needs to be. He’ll safely sleep the rest of it off.”

“Sorry.” The anger had faded enough the guilt could properly edge in.

“It’s okay.” John sent him a weary smile. “These things happen, and you look like you need it.”

Greg slid down in his plush armchair. Sherlock was light and bony enough the padding hadn’t really worn despite the age of the cushions.

“It’s stupid.” He finally said.

“It upset you, though.” John kindly turned his gaze back to the TV. It made it easier for Greg to breathe.

“Yeah, I guess.”

John didn’t snort, but the roll of his eyes was obvious even side on.

“Okay, yeah, a bit.” Greg allowed. “We had an argument. He,” no need to define who, “started in on my job and the danger and how I hadn’t let him know I wouldn’t be home.”

“He is more than capable of finding that out himself.” John commented.

“Yeah, but I should have texted. I admit that. I would have, before, to complain or something, but now we’re living together somehow it seemed less important; that he’d know where I was cause I wasn’t home, which is stupid.”

“Please tell me you’re not-”

“No,” Greg interrupted. “I’m still bloody angry. I should have texted, but he knows my job and had no right to go off at me for doing it. That’s not the… that’s not what hurt.”

“What else happened then?” John changed the TV channel as the cartoon ended and they watched several coming up soon ads, then when the BBC news chime sounded and John flipped back to cable to more ads.

“It’s stupid.” Greg said, watching IKEA try to flog furniture. “I knew going in, I just…”

He trailed off and stayed silent through a coca-cola and a telco ad.

“He said I wasn’t his Sub.” His voice sounded distant.

John frowned in the corner of his vision. It might have been at the tea ad on the screen.

“I’m subbing for him, but I’m not his.” Greg clarified. “I knew that; he made it clear going in. Just with everything, I guess I’d begun to hope.”

John nodded. He didn’t offer any sympathy. Greg was glad.

“It hurt.” By keeping his eyes on the TV it was easy to pretend he was talking to himself. “It made me so angry, him going off about my life as if I was accountable to him and then reminding me I wasn’t.

“I’m still angry.” He paused. “At him, at myself. I shouldn’t have let myself forget.”

He didn’t say anything else and John let him watch the awful soap that was showing in silence.

“There’s a repeat of the football on.” John said quietly when it was done. “Pub or takeaway?”

Greg understood the offer. Takeaway and they could keep talking, John would ask questions, possibly get Greg to think about things he wasn’t sure he wanted to, but probably should.

The pub was public, topic closed, conversation over.

“Pub.” He replied shortly.

“I’ll wake Sherlock and tell him.” John stood. “You might want to…uh…” He waved his hand around his neck.

“Oh, yeah.” Greg unfastened the necklace and laid it on the coffee table. Angry or not, throwing his secret into the open, even in such an obscure hint, was stupid.

It had served its purpose anyway. As much of one as it had.

John nodded and went to tell his Sub he was going out.

Greg finished his beer and resolved determinedly not to think.


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Evening all. Last episode of season 3 airing soon. Can't wait!
> 
> No particular warnings I can think of for this chapter, unless you count falling into self-destructive relationship cycles.

Greg trudged back into the house, leather jacket slung over one arm and cheap, emergency, corner store sunglasses over his eyes. John may have been a rugby man by choice, but when he wanted to he could hold up his end of a football discussion. Those discussions usually started with John deliberately impugning the honour of Greg’s beloved Arsenal, opening the door for retaliatory strikes, rants and general complaining about lily-livered fakes more interested in acting than the ball, biased umpiring, and whatever had just happened on the screen.

John’s loyalty to the Spurs was loose enough he effectively didn’t have a team, which meant no matter who was playing he could work Greg right up.

By half time the pub (not the Beehive, somewhere new) had also joined in and Greg, John (who was switching sides at random), a couple of Betas and a very fit female Dom who looked like she might play herself were voraciously defending the _slightly_ questionable slide tackle by Aaron Ramsey against an equally passionate group of Norwich supporters.

It was the most fun Greg had had in weeks, and once he realised John’s flipping from one team to the other was in order to redirect arguments whenever it appeared they’d shift from friendly to problematic, he let himself relax and really get into it, trusting the other Alpha to keep things in hand.

By the end of the match (a draw) Greg wasn’t buying his own drinks and the group had swelled to include two more booths worth of people, conversation broadening to include a general assessment of each of the premier league teams’ chances at finishing on top. There was also a not insignificant amount of ranting about the national team, performance in the European and upcoming World Cups, and general grumbling and discontent, half those present convinced they could do a better job than Roy Hodgson.

Greg hadn’t planned on getting drunk given his recent exhaustion and had only actually bought one pint, intending to nurse it through the game. That had been the intent, and when he’d finished that one he certainly hadn’t intended to buy another. He hadn’t, but that hadn’t stopped them being shoved into his hand by overly worked up football fans.

Chips and other finger food also mysteriously appeared on the table. That though Greg was fairly certain was Dr J. H. Watson.

The evening had passed quickly in a haze of voices, alcohol and chips. A couple of times John had given him funny looks until Greg realised the female Dom next to him was practically salivating on his shoulder, pressed against him from elbow to thigh, and was responsible for shoving most of the beers at Greg. At that Greg had bought the next round and contrived to use the opportunity to change seats.

They hadn’t stayed too late, John shuffling them out of the gathered horde before eight, wanting to get back to Sherlock. Knowing his friend hadn’t been as comfortable as he pretended about leaving his Sub at home, cognisant or not, Greg didn’t protest, especially as he’d been getting appreciative looks from more than just the persistent lady Dom. He thought a couple of hands may have been less than accidently brushing over him as he and John tried to work their way toward the door, and he had definitely had at least one number shoved in his back pocket as a male voice whispered “Call me” in his ear.

He’d torn up the number and thrown it in the bin as soon as he got outside. The attention was flattering, but hollow, not coming from the only person he wanted it from.

John had supported him as Greg’d stumbled his way back to Baker Street, no clue how many beers he’d ended up having.

“I need to sshhtop ‘is.” He mumbled to John as John settled him on the couch. The bed upstairs was apparently covered in something Greg didn’t want to know about. “Gonna ‘come an alscholic too.”

“It wasn’t quite the plan. Sleep it off, Greg.” John patted his shoulder and left.

Through blurry eyes Greg had seen him walk into the kitchen where he was going joined by a tall lanky figure. Snatches of conversation stuck in his brain, “…okay…”, “…sorry for leaving you…”, “…love…”, “… My…”, “…id…texted…”, before it all shut down.

The glasses had been sitting on his wallet when he woke.

Marble was cruel as it didn’t muffle footsteps.

“You’re back.”

Greg paused on the second stair. With his not too bad, but still present, headache he managed to miss the sound of Mycroft emerging from… wherever. The Dom’s face was a polite mask, but his eyes were flitting furiously over Greg, taking in his rumpled clothing, his dark glasses, and scruffy hair. Finished cataloguing, there was a subtle easing to Mycroft’s posture as his eyes rose to Greg’s face.

“Big night?” He asked, sounding as if he was trying to be sympathetic and failing.

Greg was too tired to work out whether it was the sympathy or the failing that was genuine, and still too wound up to really care. His anger had faded with distance and drink, but just because it wasn’t the emotion lodged in his chest didn’t mean something wasn’t there, something that was making his heart rate rise painfully, the muscle fluttering like a panicked rabbit in his chest.

“Big enough.” He replied shortly, turning and walking up the stairs without looking back.

“How was the couch at 221B?” Greg could hear the sharp edge in Mycroft’s voice, aimed at his back. “I imagine it’s not the most comfortable place to sleep.”

Instead of yelling back Greg slammed the bathroom door behind him as he headed for the shower. Mycroft must have got the point because he didn’t say more, nor did he follow Greg up the stairs. Greg thrust his head under the shower spray and refused to consider whether or not that hurt.

Pulling on his rattiest, grungiest, softest, most comfortable tracksuit and a stretched t-shirt felt like sliding into old, familiar skin. At some point yesterday, Mycroft had come up and turned off the stereo. He’d also picked up the snow globe and placed it on the bedside table.

Greg left the stereo off. Turning it on seemed childish, especially turning it up loud. Moving the snow globe seemed just as childish, but he did it anyway because it irritated the lump of emotion he was steadfastly ignoring. He pushed the DVDs off his pillow, dug into his drawer for his ancient laptop, and plugged in his headphones.

He’d been intending to read one of the books shortlisted for the latest Man Brooker Prize leant to him by Sally for ages, mostly so she’d shut up about it, but the subject matter took too much effort and too much time. It would be perfect for today.

He read through lunch.

His stomach rumbled mid-afternoon, but Greg ignored it and took a nap instead.

He wasn’t hiding in his room. He just didn’t want to see Mycroft.

He was struggling through the middle of the book when there was a light knock on his door, barely audible over the guitar strumming in his ears. Greg pulled out one of the ear buds.

“Come in.” He left the book on his chest, absolutely not a protective shield.

It was dark outside and Greg’s bedside lamp wasn’t strong enough to light up Mycroft’s face completely, creating an interesting play of shadows and light as the glow from the corridor set certain features into relief.

“Dinner is ready.” Mycroft’s voice was quiet. At a stretch Greg would let himself characterise it as subdued.

“I’m not hungry. I’ll eat later.” Greg’s voice was similarly quiet, but distant.

Mycroft lifted his upper body defiantly.

“The pizza will get cold.” Mycroft’s voice held a definite challenge, but also a tiny quaver on the first word, thoroughly quashed by the last.

“Pizza?” Greg pulled the other ear bud out and tapped the spacebar to pause the music.

Mycroft hated pizza, avoiding it like the plague lest it wreak havoc on his diet.

“Yes.” Mycroft nodded stiffly and left.

Feeling a little like Alice, confused by the shifting principles of reality, Greg brushed the headphones aside and placed the book on the bed, eyes pinned on Mycroft’s retreating figure. Wondering to the door, Greg was surprised to see Mycroft head up the stairs, not down. The smell of oily garlicy cheese wafted faintly through the air, giving credence to Mycroft’s words.

Almost trancelike, Greg wondered bewilderedly down the hall, pausing at the bottom of the stairs and hearing Mycroft’s retreating footsteps.

He followed him up.

The door to the TV room was open and the delicious scent much stronger.

Greg slowly walked to the door, peering in. He didn’t recognise the logo, but they were definitely pizza boxes stacked neatly on the table in front of the sinful leather couch. There was a jug of water and two glasses. There was also a single bottle of beer that had _not_ previously been in the fridge.

Mycroft had settled onto the single chair, using the remote to turn on the TV and DVD player. Greg hesitantly sank onto the couch, halfway down so as not to be too close.

The opening notes to the _Yes, Minister_ DVD menu caught his attention.

His DVDs were down in his room, shoved unceremoniously off his pillow so he could read. That meant these were Mycroft’s, which meant at some point Mycroft had bought his own copy.

The edges of Greg’s eyes burned with unshed tears, irrationally moved by the fact.  

Mycroft said nothing, pressing play, pouring water and silently handing Greg his pizza.

Greg opened the lid. His pizza was covered in bacon, beef, salami, extra cheese and onion, without a green vegetable in sight. Breaking out a piece revealed the cheese laden crust, Greg’s guilty pleasure. It was exactly the sort of mess of fat, oil, grease and carbohydrate Mycroft had been trying to talk Greg out of for years.

Humphrey was talking down to Hacker on screen, the voice track forming a muffled noise in the background.

Greg eyed Mycroft, watching him instead of the TV. Mycroft’s gaze was glued almost forcefully to the screen, mechanically bringing slices of his own pizza to his mouth. It was almost the opposite of Greg’s – smallest size possible, thin crust, loaded with vegetables and almost completely grease free.

Greg turned back to the TV, lump in his throat.

An apology. This was an apology. Mycroft might not explicitly say the words, but this was his way of saying sorry: setting up the evening Greg had craved.

He forced out a weak chuckle at one of the witty one-liners.

Mycroft’s shoulders loosened.

He was worried, Greg realised, really worried he’d pushed too far and broken the tenuous frayed connection between them, driving Greg away.

The knot of emotion didn’t unravel, but flipped, twisted, in some way moved, maybe even eased, so it felt different in Greg’s chest. Not gone, just different, but the next time Bernard let his mouth run ahead of his brain, Greg let himself properly laugh.

~*~

The text message reminder of the Monday meeting arrived part way through Greg’s morning run. As he’d been arriving at the Yard plenty early in the mornings, Greg finished his full course in defiance of muscles, aching after a few days inaction, trying to convince him otherwise.

Despite the casual friendly conversation that had sprung up by the end of the first disk and continued long past they both should have been asleep, by unspoken consensus they’d retired to their separate rooms for bed, both still feeling brittle. Even though Greg had slept better, it had still been a mostly frustrating night, probably not helped by his afternoon nap.

Holding his coffee he strolled into the Yard, seeing Sally already at her desk shuffling paperwork around into already neat piles. She sent him a relaxed smile, remnants of her black eye artfully hidden by her makeup. It was a skill many policewomen shared with the victims they investigated.

Even with the required allowance to get to the meeting a few minutes early, Greg still had some time so he shuffled his own paperwork around his desk into semi-organised piles until Sally knocked politely on his door and they headed to the allocated conference room.

Whiting was already present, chatting to a grumpy looking Gregson with a huge ‘I’m a morning person’ smile on his face. Both acknowledged Greg and Sally as they walked in, Whiting with a smile and Gregson with a half-hearted grunt, but Gregson was always a surly bastard until after his third coffee or two in the afternoon, whichever came first.

His black eye was a spectacular bloom of colour.

There were some other sergeants present, including Gregson’s overly enthusiastic DS and Johnson who’d helped wrestle Michael Carson down to holdings. The DIs were slightly slower to trickle in, and most of them were holding large coffee cups having had to get up and do the school run before they’d been able to rush to the station.

Unusually Sally stuck to Greg’s side rather than wondering off to chat and socialise with her peers. There weren’t many DC’s present and Sally wasn’t the kind of person to hide behind someone else rather than talk to her friends in fear of a rival maybe showing up, so Greg was left wondering whether the other officers had been giving her a hard time over the latest drama with Anderson. There was a fine line between companionable teasing and hurtful bullying, and in a high stress environment it was very easy to step over that line, especially if Sally was still feeling sensitive.

Alternatively she was sticking with him in a show of moral support, worried maybe that if she left he’d be on his own. Either way, she snagged a seat next to him and crumpled into it with a sigh.

“How was your weekend?” She asked quietly.

Greg shrugged. “Watched the match. You?”

“Slept.” She grinned contentedly. “And when I woke up, ate and slept some more.”

“Glad to hear it.” Greg was going to say more, but the hum faded as the Super stood up at the front of the room.

“Good Morning.” Packenham said formally.

Dimmock rushed in in a clatter of doors, metal and thumps, tie askew and shirt not quite tucked in. Flushing bright red at being so obviously late, he slunk into a chair at the back.

“As I was saying,” Packenham glared into the corner Dimmock was hiding in, “good morning and thank you all for being here as requested. Your DCI and I have a fairly serious topic to talk to you all about. We’re sorry it’s come to this, but some things are past acceptable in this division and must be fixed.”

Everyone shifted in their chairs self-consciously. Staff meetings involving all the detectives were rare and generally meant very bad things. Greg could only remember five in his entire career with the Yard.

“It’s not everyone here,” Packenham continued, “but it is felt that this needs to be dealt with now before it becomes a wider issue.”

Mulgrave nodded sagely behind Packenham, presenting a picture of total agreement.

“It has come to my attention that certain team members have not been acting professionally and that personal problems and relationships have been inappropriately played out across a wider sphere.”

Greg and Sally stiffened as the whole room very deliberately did not look at them.

Words continued to flow past Greg’s ears in a haze. True, Sally and Anderson’s affair wasn’t the most professional act, but they were hardly the only two officers sleeping with each other and they certainly fought less, in public, than many of their peers who had nothing more than chips on their shoulders.

Besides which all three of them, Sally, Anderson and the hapless Weatherly had proven at Leicester Square, that they could work together, if a little frostily.

It was this public condemnation that was inappropriate. If Mulgrave or Packenham had had a problem they should have come to Greg and instructed him to have a word with them, or, if they had totally lost faith in him after his mini-breakdown, they should have had Sally come in for a private chat. The public farce, which was most definitely aimed at his team and everyone knew it, was just wrong. 

After all, while Greg imagined Weatherly was cringing in her seat somewhere, Anderson was nowhere to be seen as he technically fell under the remit of SOCO, not the Serious Crime Directorate.

Packenham continued speaking, Mulgrave nodding beside him, both of them with eyes glued somewhere above their gathered detectives _not_ looking down. Everyone was _not_ looking, and Sally and Greg sat like stone under their non-existent stares.

Greg at least found the timing suspicious. There had been much worse breakdowns between Sally and Anderson before they managed to reach come form of equilibrium, and never even a quiet word had been said. Now a public meeting? Was this because Greg had opened himself up to attack, shown a weakness to be pounced on? Although rationally it was unlikely all this was aimed for some reason at Greg, he couldn’t help feeling that way and Packenham’s next words, cutting through Greg’s contemplation, didn’t do anything to help that feeling.

“Lastly, to emphasise how seriously this matter is being taken, any DI whose subordinate officers are found to be acting in such an unprofessional manner will be subject to disciplinary action, internal proceedings, and possible demotion.”

Out of the corner of his eye Greg could see Whiting, the DI Weatherly worked with most often, flex his jaw.

Packenham said a couple more words and dismissed them all, leading the way out of the room with Mulgrave.

No one else moved, eyes still locked to the front.

Without looking at each other, Greg and Sally smoothly stood and started towards the door. It wasn’t that far, but with the tremendous weight of all the eyes not on them it felt like miles.

A few meters from the door Dimmock, who had evidently stood and started moving, tripped over a chair and thumped loudly into Greg. Apologising profusely, he managed to get them even more tangled and in his overly eager puppy-dog way almost sent them crashing to the floor. It effectively broke the tension in the room, like it was intended to Greg realised when Dimmock gave him a small smile as Gregson unceremoniously hauled the young DI out of the tangled mess he’d created by the collar, berating him the whole time for being late, for being clumsy and for the capital offense of disturbing Gregson before he’d had enough coffee.

Greg didn’t protest when Sally said she was going to spend the day chasing down leads for the Leicester Square case and would be out of the office all day. If she hadn’t he probably would have kicked her out for a list of similar tasks himself.

His day was full of the paperwork to bring Carson before a Magistrate, the bail hearing, and once he was sure Carson was going to be held on remand until trial, explaining everything to Sam and Daniel.

Sam he’d given an edited version, unsure how much Peter would want his friend and flatmate to know. Daniel he told everything, working on the philosophy that Peter needed an Alpha who would be fully dedicated to him and resolving his issues, and that if that wasn’t going to be Daniel it would be better Daniel left now and never found out what hospital Peter was in.

There were some tense seconds when Greg thought he’d misjudged Daniel Hill and that the Alpha would leave, but the moment passed and a shaking voice began pleading with Greg for Peter’s hospital suite.

Relief was a heady emotion.

Dinner was friendly, cordial. Greg updated Mycroft on the latest Yard gossip, Mycroft laughed and smiled in all the right places and recounted salacious stories of unnamed MPs, diplomats, bureaucrats and spies that made Greg gape and blush.

It felt like a date in their own kitchen.

They slept in separate rooms.

Tuesday Greg ‘kept’ Sally following up leads. She reported back to him at lunch and the end of the day with lots of completed tasks, but no real progress.

Greg completed mounds of paperwork for his cases in the ‘preparing for court’ stage, now including the Carson/Robinson case. He also dug through some more missing person’s reports. Industry, but no production.

Tuesday night was their first session in over a week, leaving Greg shuddering out his orgasm over Mycroft’s leather clad hands, the only touch of flesh on flesh Greg’s lips around Mycroft’s cock as he worked the plug in and out at Mycroft’s increasingly breathy commands.

Technically it was one of the best sessions, the best orgasms, of Greg’s life, but it felt distant, almost empty.

Greg spent the night curled as tightly as possible around Mycroft, nose buried in the crook of his neck, hands plastered under Mycroft’s pyjamas, cradling the small, but firm bump.

When he woke the knot in Greg’s chest felt like it had shifted, sections loosening while others clenched tighter.

Wednesday Greg dragged Sally to Baker St to finally get back his case file. She waited in the car while he ran up to collect the file, Sherlock’s deductions (and insults), and John’s notes and logical gap filling.

Sherlock had been busy, and Greg turned a deliberate blind eye to the glaring gaps in John’s notes where certain information was not legally obtained. By the end of the day they’d tracked down sufficient official evidence to arrest Kelly Peterson’s science teacher, who was having an affair with a student and had been stumbled across by the young girl after school. Faced with the proof, she’d crumpled readily and Greg was able to spend an emotional hour with the family gently explaining what had happened to their baby girl.

It had meant he was an hour late home.

He did text.

That night Mycroft bound tight and thrashed him until every nerve had sung.

He spent that night in an almost identical position to the night before.

Thursday was spent praying nothing came up that would require him to work stupid hours over the weekend and wondering where Sally, who was meant to have nipped down to Brighton for a quick statement from a green grocer, was. She arrived back just before closing with the statement and a message from the local force commending her for her help in unravelling a string of robberies. Apparently she’d noticed the vital piece of evidence that led them to the culprits and she’d stayed to help arrest them.

Greg copied the memo and stored it in her personnel file, but they both agreed mentioning it to Mulgrave would seem too obvious, so they left it as a talking point for Sally’s yearly reviews instead and avoided the political shit storm, despite the fact that both of them really wanted to pin it to the DCI’s door and highlight the most complementary lines in bright fluorescent pink highlighter.

Thursday night involved all things B: bondage, ball gags, beads and buggery.

Friday something did come up, just after lunch, but with a couple of witnesses who’d seen the deceased fighting with someone matching the person in the love heart frame in the apartment and the victim’s phone contacts, the whole thing fell apart extremely quickly.

He let Sally go an arrest the Dom, a double edged gift as it meant she also had to do all the paperwork.

Greg took home takeaway: Chinese from the place near the Yard Mycroft preferred to the one near their place. They watched movies and Greg left his ankle against Mycroft’s leg when they touched.

His chest felt looser.

For the first time in almost two weeks, Mycroft kissed him during sex.

Lying pressed up against Mycroft’s back while he slept, Greg knew that it was no good. Despite knowing otherwise, despite telling himself otherwise over and over again, he’d once again stupidly begun to hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of thanks to everyone who's been reading and commenting so far. I love reading them all so much, especially all the regulars who comment every time. It gives me something to look forward too (slightly obsessively).


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good afternoon from the middle of a heat wave. Not quite on fire, yet.
> 
> You are all very sweet. That was a genuine thank you last chapter, and you gave me even more wonderful comments to get excited over. In response to some of the questions, i can upload this more quickly if you want, it is finished after all, but I'm using the time to try and get Part III written so it'll mean more delays then if I speed up now. Up to you all though.
> 
> Having said that, not entirely happy with this chapter. Then end just... still doesn't feel right for me somehow, but still. No real chapter warnings, and a lot of made up of biology.

Despite the fact it was Saturday and there had been no alarm set, Greg still woke early thanks to his damnable internal clock.

Waking did not imply moving.

A small contented sigh escaped, breath stirring the air and sending fresh ginger spice swirling through the room. His lips curled into a small smile, pressed gently against the back of Mycroft’s neck. Stray chocolate-orange strands tickled Greg’s nose, the edges just beginning to curl where Mycroft had let his hair get slightly longer than usual in between haircuts.

Greg sighed again, a small hug of breath, and lazily nuzzled the skin behind his love’s ear. He slowly, languidly stretched, feeling his skin slide along Mycroft’s body, way eased by the silk-satin slide of Mycroft’s pyjamas. One day, Greg thought as he rubbed his face lightly in Mycroft’s hair, he would convince Mycroft to leave off the sleep clothes and would be able to wake up skin to skin, fingers stroking over natural contours unsmoothed by slinky fabric.

His cock felt heavy and full, nestled up against Mycroft’s silk clad rear. He wasn’t hard, but he was definitely swollen and it felt glorious to slide lightly along the firm muscles, lax in sleep. Combined with the overnight build-up of pheromones it was a heady sensation, intoxicating and warm.

There was no urgency, no real arousal. It was more like being drunk, the edges of sight blurred, everything exaggerated and just a little bit fuzzy. It was that pleasant stage of intoxication, the world existing just out of focus, all sensual curves and limpid angles. Drunk on Mycroft.

Fingers slid delicately over the crest of Mycroft’s hip, caressing the thin line of exposed skin where his top had ridden up. Keeping the contact light as he slipped his fingers under the silk, Greg brushed wider and wider circles on the skin of Mycroft’s belly, feeling the firm, unyielding bulge that was their child.

Suddenly wanting to see, Greg pushed up onto his elbow, right hand still skating over Mycroft’s front while he arranged himself. Mycroft must have been worn to the bone; there was no other reason for his usual reflexes not to kick in and wake him at Greg’s movements. He placed a gentle kiss on Mycroft’s temple and let himself believe, just for a moment, that Mycroft hadn’t woken because his body recognised Greg’s scent, knew his Alpha was near and that he was safe to relax and sleep undisturbed.

Greg twisted his upper body so he could see down Mycroft’s lanky side, taking his torso out of direct contact with Mycroft’s back. The bureaucrat gave a sleepy grumble, body shifting in his slumber until he was once more pressed against Greg. With a quiet sigh he stilled, oblivious to the emotional reaction Greg had to stifle as his heart felt close to bursting, lest he disturb Mycroft’s much needed rest. Instead Greg contented himself with dropping barely there kisses over Mycroft’s face and hair while his fingers worked his way carefully up the row of buttons, undoing as he went.

The fabric fell apart as each button loosened, parting with nothing more than a gentle sweep of fingers to leave the creamy skin beneath bare. Mycroft’s nipples were slightly swollen, the areoles a little bit larger than Greg remembered and a slightly darker dusty pink. They were also more sensitive, causing Mycroft to shiver as the back of Greg’s fingers lightly brushed over one on their way down his body.

Too far from Mycroft’s scent when he was propped up on his elbow, Greg bent over so he could bury his nose in the juncture of neck and shoulder, greedily inhaling as much as his lungs could hold. It didn’t matter that Mycroft’s scent had saturated the room, renewed and replenished each night. Greg was an addict and needed it straight from the source.

Still feasting on scent, his hand wandered down, fingers skating along the remaining buttons before dipping under the pants’ waistband. Mycroft’s cock was soft in its nest of curls, and for some time Greg just held it, enjoying the pliant weight in his fingers, feeling the slow steady lengthen as with each slow heartbeat it filled, until like Greg Mycroft existed in that half-hard state that could go either way and exist seemingly indefinitely.

Fingers stretching further, Greg was required by simple physics to pull away from Mycroft’s neck to softly palm the sacks hanging loose below his body. It meant Greg was in position to watch the expressions on Mycroft’s face and better hear the breathy sighs as he slowly rolled the heavy balls in his hand, feeling the veiny skin and the sparse wiry hair under the pads of his fingers.

Unwilling to lose the slow, weighty, syrup-like atmosphere to the lighter sharper arousal, Greg gently released Mycroft and drew his fingers up, heedless of the sleepy murmur of discontent his love gave at the loss of contact. Instead Greg’s fingers splayed over the sizeable baby bump, tracing fragile skin with questing digits.

Mycroft gave a contended sigh, his own fingers curling lightly into the pillow.

At about 19 weeks the swell of Mycroft’s stomach was clearly visible away from the clever tailoring and distracting lines of his suits. Mycroft must have reverted to using the outfit’s he’d stored away from when he was heavier, all of which had been out to flatter his figure and hide his middle. Either that or Mycroft’s tailor knew too, and Greg didn’t think that was likely.

Without the suits it was possible to see how much Mycroft had grown. It was lucky, Greg reflected, that Mycroft’s frame was broader and prone to bulk. They’d never have been able to hide a secret like this for so long if he’d shared Sherlock’s slender, bony physique. Any weight gain would have been immediately obvious, the slightest bump visible for the world to see.

It was astonishing to think that in there, curled up just out of reach, was a human being; Still developing, of course, but there and growing, a bundle of cells that was half him and half Mycroft, dividing and replicating and forming.

Greg stroked the skin separating him from the baby. How big was it now? John had said around 14cm, but that was tiny. So small, so fragile. He curled his hand protectively, trying to cover as great an area as possible.

He _would_ look after this precious gift, protect it and its bearer from the world. Greg was aware it was very caveman, the absolute _need_ filling him to love, protect, and possess, but he didn’t care. His baby, his Omega, his family.

His.

He tightened his grip and pulled Mycroft snug against his body, the lightest of growls, more a full bodied purr in the heavy feel of the room, erupting from his lips against Mycroft’s skin. The deep rumble in his chest obviously connected to some level of Mycroft’s awareness because a similar rumble escaped him and he arched his neck, opening that tantalising spot to full view and inviting Greg’s lips and tongue.

Greg accepted the invitation, grazing his teeth over the area, following up with long hard strokes savouring strokes. The phantom taste of Mycroft filled his taste buds and he latched on with his lips, sucking and licking to collect as much of the non-existent nectar as possible.

Mycroft gave a small moan and turned his face, blocking access to his neck, but placing his mouth conveniently within reach. Greg kissed his way up Mycroft’s jaw before slowly licking into his mouth, thin lips already parted before Greg’s tongue.

Greg kept his strokes lazy and long, matching his moves to their steady heartbeats. Despite the clear sexuality of the situation, it was still the sensuality, the decadence that flooded his senses. Mycroft’s mouth wasn’t helping, the chemical flavours of spice and cinnamon overpowering the lingering staleness of morning breath.

It was impossible to characterise Mycroft, define him in a few simple words, but if he had had to, despite Mycroft’s undeniable Englishness, Greg would have chosen orange, gold, and delicate cream mixed with saffron, vanilla, ginger, and sandalwood spice – all the opulance of the sub-continent threaded through Mycroft’s scent and taste with shots of almost visible colour.

“Gregory.” Mycroft purred against his lips.

Greg drew back a little, just far enough to see Mycroft’s eyes were hazily open and he was awake. The light olive sheets brought out the blue in Mycroft’s eyes and the vague hint of red in his hair, colours so far from his scent, but still so uniquely suited to him.

“Gorgeous,” Greg breathed, bending his lips back to Mycroft’s, hand drifting from his stomach to his shoulders to turn him to his back and better cradle the Omega against him.

The kiss was just as lingering, as lascivious as before, the slow burn building in his groin still smouldering, not yet alight. Mycroft’s hand slid off the bed, gliding up Greg’s arm in deceptive gentleness as his mouth surrendered under Greg’s. It hovered millimetres above Greg’s hair, almost burying itself in the strands, almost pulling him in closer, before it dropped to his shoulder and roughly shoved him off.

Greg landed on his back with a start, pheromone muzzled brain not understanding where his pliant, responsive love had gone.

Mycroft swung his legs off the bed and stood smoothly, posture stiff as his fingers worked furiously to re-button the pyjama top. He had almost reached the bottom when his face garnered a distinctly grey tinge and he rushed to the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.

Greg sighed and ran a hand over his face. Evidently that was too far, which, given some of the things they’d been doing to each other of a night, was a lot less extreme than some other acts they’d enjoyed, but apparently where Mycroft shuddering to completion around Greg’s cock, flogger still shakily gripped in one hand as he came, was acceptable, lazy Saturday morning kissing was not.

‘In all fairness,’ part of his brain piped up, ‘he was asleep for most of it.’

Well, yes, and Greg blushed lightly at the thought, but Greg hadn’t really been doing anything other than looking and Mycroft had woken up when they really started.

Woken up and bolted?

Woken up and kissed back, maybe even lovingly and…

‘Stop it!’ He told himself firmly, climbing out of bed and collecting his clothes from the night before. ‘Mycroft doesn’t love you, he only cares for you, and you know that and you said it was fine. Stop projecting your emotions onto him, before you lose him altogether.’

It was hard though, especially given the way Mycroft’s body reacted when his brain didn’t interfere to force him to remember otherwise. It was like Mycroft felt more, but wouldn’t allow it.

‘Or maybe,’ the ruthlessly logical part of his brain commented as he flipped a crepe with a practised flick of the wrist, ‘that’s you projecting again.’

Mycroft looked disconcerted to see Greg standing, showered and dressed, cooking crepes when he came down. Not everyone, Greg replied silently with a roll of his eyes, a response clear as day to a Holmes, took so long in the mornings in the bathroom.

Then he felt guilty, because at least some, maybe a lot, of that time was spent by Mycroft being sick, a state Greg was partly responsible for and so indirectly Greg’s fault.

“Crepe?” He asked instead, moving the plate he was stacking them on to the table so Mycroft could take one. “I know no eggs, but I hoped you might be able to manage these.”

“Thank you, yes.” Mycroft looked a little stunned, but helped himself to a crepe and some of the fruit already chopped and waiting on the table.

Greg made sure his back was fully to Mycroft before he let out a smug smirk. He could too take care of Mycroft.

It was raining by the time they finished eating so Greg’s tentative thoughts of a romantic stroll by the lake had to be set mentally aside. Mycroft appeared perfectly content to stretch out on the library couch with his book and not say another word for the day, so Greg perused his own small collection for suitable reading material to take downstairs and join him.

About to collect Sally’s book from the pile, his eyes fell on the collection of baby books John had got him a few weeks ago, still in their bag shoved half under the bed. Making a decision he pulled it out and retrieved one of the books, hand sliding over the glossy cover.

He’d been thinking about this this morning, wondering how his son was growing and marvelling at the rarely visible changes in Mycroft’s body while he was still enough for Greg to study him. It made sense to do some reading, prepare himself a bit, maybe even, he blushed at the thought, come up with some questions for John.

He drifted towards the door, cradling one of the books like the baby he’d soon be able to hold. Having second thoughts, he took the dust jacket off and left it on the bed. This would be touchy enough, reading the book near an Omega still not quite happy about his status, without giving Mycroft any obvious clues as to Greg’s current choice of literature.

The library painted a scene Greg had to struggle not to clutch to his chest over, heart determined to grow several sizes and thud its way out of his chest. The curtains were open, sheers drawn to disrupt easy sight lines, letting the stormy weather crash and wail in the background. The fire threw soft golden warmth over the room, augmenting the cool clear light from outside and taking the biting edge off the chill. Mycroft lay stretched out on the couch dressed in a white shirt and blue cashmere sweater that hugged the developing curves of his body, grey formal trousers ending over wool socks. He was propped partially upright against the arm, right elbow leaning on the leather, fingers curled absently in his hair. One knee was bent upright, a more relaxed pose than any Greg had ever seen him in, face tranquil as he read, utterly absorbed in the text.

It was so… was so… Greg didn’t know what it was, but it made his chest ache and fingers wish for a camera to capture the moment.

Mycroft had claimed the couch leaving no space for Greg without cuddling together, something Greg would adore, but he suspected Mycroft would be less amicable about. He could curl up on the floor next to Mycroft’s hip or shoulders, upper body leaning against the sofa as he sat at his Dom’s side where Mycroft’s fingers could casually drift through his hair, absent contact as they contentedly shared a space, each involved in their own activities, but together.

Greg’s throat worked as the longing to surrender so absolutely to Mycroft filled him, but he knew he wouldn’t. Although many stricter Doms regularly required their Subs to kneel next to them, Greg had never understood the matching desire to give. It had struck him as degrading, something Mycroft knew, and once he was no longer attempting to cow Greg he’d never taken them to a restaurant where it was required of Subs again, despite not knowing why it disturbed Greg on a personal as well as a moral level.

But this, this urge to sit there and hand everything over to his Dom and just relax and drift in their combined presence… it was different to the surrender during a session, involved handing over a more intimate and personal control that terrified Greg, precisely because it was outside of sex.

The act wasn’t degrading or belittling at all: it was a display of unbelievable strength and trust on the part of the Sub, especially when in public; one Greg knew he wasn’t brave enough for.

Even if he were, Mycroft wouldn’t accept the gesture.

Even if he would, they couldn’t, not with the curtains open to the world.

Greg pulled one of the high wing backed chairs closer to the couch. Mycroft watched him quizzically as Greg settled himself in it, tucking his feet under Mycroft’s legs on the couch in concession of his need to touch. Without protest, Mycroft arranged his legs around Greg’s feet.

Faint strains of classical music reached Greg’s ears once he settle, too low to be heard over the shuffle of moving or outside the room. The music was majestic despite the low volume, strings flowing between and around piping horns and sliding down their runs of notes like foam over waves. He closed his eyes and tilted his head back as the violins sparkled over the base notes, images from fantasia darting through his head, light and bright over heavier orchestra. He didn’t think it actually was one of the pieces from the Disney production, but from his vague memory of the images his wife had forced him through, it would have been a pretty piece to animate.

Though if it had been, he smiled absently, he might not enjoy it so much now.

“Handel’s Water Suite.” Mycroft said quietly, eyes still regarding Greg over the top of his book.  

“It’s nice.” Greg let the music merge with the beat of the rain and wash over him. “Very appropriate.”

“I thought it might be.”

Greg opened his eyes and smiled at Mycroft, toes burrowing in further under Mycroft’s legs. Mycroft’s eyes dropped back to his book.

Taking the hint Greg turned his attention to his own book, cracking it open with a mix of wary enthusiasm and eager doubt. The first few chapters were about Estrus and the physiological changes both the Alpha and the Omega involved went through. Greg skipped over them on the theory that it was never going to be practically relevant to him again and he could read it for interest’s sake later.

He stopped at Chapter 3: Conception and the First Trimester. Health classes, he decided, really had been a long time ago. He barely remembered any of this.

Some of it was familiar. He could vaguely remember sniggering with his classmate as the stammering Beta teacher tried to explain the copious amounts of sperm the Alpha would produce to soak the ovum. He definitely remembered loudly moaning his way through loud fake orgasms as the teacher had attempted to explain knotting and multiple organisms. In an attempt to impress Susie Rogers, Jamie Stamwell had yelled out “I’ll give you multiple orgasms.” Susie had rolled her eyes and the rest of the class had burst out laughing.

Most of it was stuff he was sort of familiar with from Josephine as the initial stages of female and Omega pregnancies were the same. In fact most of the differences were in the Alpha, not the pregnancy itself. Unlike with Josephine, Greg could have expected to experience an increased attachment (check), increased need for physical affection (check), increased possessiveness (check-ish), and also an increased tolerance for his mate’s eccentricities (check, check, check), all due to pheromones. Apparently the reason they were so attractive to him and no one else was because the chemical scent was based partially off his genetic code, extracted, refined and processed by Mycroft’s body. As such another Alpha or Omega from his genetic line would also be susceptible, as would Alphas and Omegas from Mycroft’s, but no one else.

He flicked a few more pages, but the book didn’t explain the effect on Bonded Alphas or Omegas. He knew there was one, John had acknowledged it last time Mycroft had been at 221B, but there was no explanation given.

He read on, eager to catch up to where Mycroft was chronologically. The book warned that each baby developed individually and that the progress of events may not be accurate, but that didn’t stop Greg devouring the week by week milestones with helpfully illustrated pictures. Apparently the baby already had little fingerprints, a thought which made Greg smile goofily.

Just as interesting were the changes he and Mycroft were supposed to be experiencing. There wasn’t all that much on his side, other than increasing devotion to Mycroft and the baby that the book assured him would fade with the pheromones at the end of the pregnancy (but Greg knew wouldn’t given he’d felt a large dose of it before Mycroft had gone into Heat, and so knew he was actually in love with the annoying, amazing, completely repressed git), and a total lack of sexual interest in anyone other than his Omega, ditto, but Mycroft really did have some interesting developments his body was racing through.

Not only was Mycroft’s body continuing to produce the pheromones triggering all the changes in Greg’s body, but it was in fact a chemical war zone as the pregnancy hormones forced back his natural levels of testosterone and other androgens to allow the necessary physical changes. Swimming in his blood there were yet more pheromones, released by the foetus to ensure a fully formed maternal bond and corresponding pheromones released by Mycroft to familiarise the child with his scent and ‘inoculate’ him so he’d never be susceptible to Estrus pheromones released by anyone sharing his related genetic code.

The morning sickness should have tapered off, but the book warned that wasn’t true of everyone. It looked like Mycroft was going to be one of the unlucky few who suffered to the end.

Greg frowned at the detailed explanation of the development of the spinal column under week 17 and 18, trying to wrap his head around the medical terms.

“What are you reading?” Mycroft asked in an exasperated voice.

Greg peered over the top of his book. “What are you reading?” He returned, not really wanting to say.

“The Prince.” Mycroft kept looking at him.

“Machiavelli?” Greg closed his book, keeping a finger in to mark the page.

“Yes.” It was a slightly patronising yes.

“Original text?”

“Of course.” Mycroft seemed insulted at the thought of anything else.

Because everyone read their classics in Renaissance Italian.

He also kept looking at Greg.

“Why do you want to know?” Greg fidgeted in his chair.

“Because you have been sighing, mumbling, blushing and frowning at it in turn since breakfast.” Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “You know I could work it out without any effort.”

Greg sighed and surrendered the book.

“Surprised you asked at all.” He mumbled, passing it over.

“You prefer it.” Mycroft absently commented as he opened the cover. “Oh, of course.”

Greg blushed under Mycroft’s gaze, glad he’d at least chosen one of the more scientific texts and not _Pregnancy for Dummies_. “John got it for me.”

“Of course he did.” Mycroft muttered, handing the book back. “I should have expected no less from the estimable Doctor Watson.”

“I’ll tell him you said that.” Greg smiled and stretched. “I’m gnawish. Can I get you anything?”

“Just some tea, thanks.” Mycroft returned to his book. “Peppermint.”

The one good thing about peppermint tea, Greg decided, was that it did at least smell nice. Even back in the library, the scent managed to diffuse lightly through the room lifting and separating the potentially cloying components of Mycroft’s personal scent.

Mycroft grunted at the sandwich Greg placed at his elbow with the tea, but tea alone wasn’t sufficient for lunch.

It was still raining outside and Greg passed a pleasant half hour doing nothing more than studying the picturesque focal point Mycroft made against the weather. It would be fascinating, he decided, to see Mycroft out in the wilds, on the moor as it was so oft depicted in literature, and see his constrained exterior pulled asunder by the elements. There would have to be somewhere warm and dry to take him back to within a suitable distance, of course, but to see him wind and rain swept, so outside his world, would have to be magnificent.

Eventually he did return to reading. At some point, probably while he was getting lunch, Mycroft had changed the music to another classical suite, but one somehow darker and wilder befitting the storm that still raged outside.

At one point there was thunder.

“How’s your balance?” Greg asked absently, reading the blurb that warned due to the size and location of the foetus bearers might find their centre of gravity had shifted and they were a little unsteady. It was, according to this, worse in Omegas than in women as their internal organs required more rearranging for the uterus to fit low at the front of their bodies.

“Fine.” Mycroft replied, in the tone of voice usually reserved for comments from Sherlock about his diet.

Greg made a mental note to keep an eye out for trip hazards and have them removed.

“Have you had an ultrasound yet?” He asked, remembering John’s comment.

“Pardon? Yes, of course.” Mycroft didn’t look up from his book.

“And he’s healthy?” Greg tentatively looked up. He wouldn’t let himself ask who was there.

“Yes.” Mycroft drew the word out in a lazy offhand manner.

“Did you get a picture?” Greg pressed.

“Why would I?” Mycroft looked genuinely startled by the idea. “I’m not doing a baby book or anything that might require Baby’s first sonograph.”

“He’s my son, Mycroft.” Greg said quietly, staring at the vivid pictures covering the pages in front of him. “I would have liked to be there, or since that’s impossible at least have seen the picture.”

Mycroft shifted fractionally on the couch. Greg wondered whether that was because he hadn’t thought of that or had and he’d dismissed the need in a fit of pique. Given Mycroft’s determination to stay aloof from everything to do with his pregnancy and keep Greg at arm’s length about it, Greg rather suspected the latter.

“It’s possible that Melissa kept a copy.” Mycroft offered in what was probably meant to be a conciliatory move.

It made Greg want to grit his teeth.

“I’ll just ask her for a copy then, shall I?” He ground out.

“Indeed.” Mycroft sniffed, voice cool again.

Greg traced along the edge of the page, mind wondering as it would.

“There are probably things we need to talk about.” He heard himself say. At Mycroft’s cold, shuttered look he hastily clarified, “For the baby.”

Mycroft’s expression eased fractionally and some of the tension drained out of his calves, still resting on top of Greg’s feet.

“You need not worry yourself.” He turned back to his book. “All the arrangements are being taken care of.”

“It’s not just the arrangements I’m talking about.” Greg sighed and closed his book. “I’m talking about other things, though I’d like it if you’d tell me what you’ve got planned for the end of your pregnancy.”

“It’s all under control, Gregory.” Mycroft sounded irritable, which didn’t surprise Greg at all. He’d got the impression that if Mycroft could have ignored his situation right up until birth he would have with aplomb. Greg pushing to talk wouldn’t be popular.

“Mycroft,” He pushed back earnestly. “We need to sort things. Some stuff can wait, school, all that stuff, but I don’t know when you’ve leaving, we haven’t talked about rooms for the nursery and sleeping and babysitting arrangements, we haven’t even discussed names.”

Greg tried not to take it personally as Mycroft moved his legs so they were no longer touching Greg’s feet.

“I’ve been thinking about it.” Greg continued, hoping Mycroft would eventually look up from his book and participate. “Come up with a list of sorts.”

When he didn’t get a response of any sort from Mycroft, he kept going.

“I was thinking maybe Alexander or William, that’s a nice name. I suppose Brian’s a little too ordinary for your tastes, but Edmond? Just nothing like Eustace or Hubert, anything like that. I’d really prefer to avoid giving bullies any help finding a reason to try and target out kid.” Greg looked carefully at Mycroft, who was still pointedly reading his book.

“My,” he sighed. “We need to have a discussion about this. What about Michael? Thomas? Again, I’d rather avoid James, if you don’t mind, too many mental associations with Jim Moriarty to want to have to yell that up the stairs for my son, but Andrew? Samuel?-”

“Abernathy.” Mycroft interrupted.

“Aber-what?” Greg stared at him.

“Abernathy Emrys Holmes.” Mycroft didn’t bother to look up from his book.

“We can, uh, add it to the list of considerations.” Greg winced at the thought. That would be awful for the poor kid. He could almost picture the bullies lining up to take a swing at him in the playground.

“No need, Gregory. As I said, these things have been sorted.” Mycroft casually turned the page.

“They’ve been – Mycroft, this isn’t something you can ‘sort’. Medical things, arrangements to disappear, that you can sort. You cannot sort our child’s name without me.” Greg’s eyes were riveted on Mycroft in utter indignation. How could Mycroft even think Greg would be okay with that?

“It has been decided, Gregory.” Mycroft appeared totally insouciant, reclined against the couch.

“Decided!” Greg growled angrily. “Decided by you, or by you and your assistant?”

“By me.” Mycroft let out a bored huff. “She merely provided a list of recommendations based on extensive research into the family tree.”

Greg was surprisingly okay with _Melissa_ wasting hours pouring over the Holmes Family Tree. He hoped it had been really boring. The rest he was still having issues with.

“You do not get to decide these things by yourself, Mycroft.” He was on the border of yelling. “I’m his Sire. I might not get much, but I get a say in his bloody name.”

“No, you don’t.” Mycroft finally raised his eyes from the book to pin Greg with his steel infused gaze. “It has been decided, Gregory, and it is not up for discussion.”

“No, I don’t.” Greg repeated dumbfounded, volume rising with each word as he struggled to stay calm. “ _No, I don’t_. This is my _son_ , Mycroft.”

Mycroft kept his gaze steady and didn’t say a word.

“ _My_ _Son_!” Greg reiterated, feeling the need to drive the point home.

Mycroft broke eye contact and nonchalantly turned another page of his book, despite not having read anything on the page before.

“No,” Greg snarled, grabbing the book out of Mycroft’s hands and pulling it away. “No, you are not doing that. We are having this conversation.”

“Are we?” Mycroft’s voice was soft and dangerous.

“What is going on here, Mycroft?” Greg demanded. “Not your Sub, yes, I know, but this is my baby too, I am his father, and I have a say in decisions relating to him.”

“It is organised, sorted, concluded. There is nothing for you to be involved in.” Mycroft’s voice was low, smooth, even.

“There is everything for me to be involved in.” Greg’s voice was low, harsh and angry. “Your assistant is more involved in this baby than I am.”

“You need not concern-”

“This is my SON, Mycroft,” Greg roared as he pushed to his feet, instinctively seeking the height advantage.

“So you keep saying.” Mycroft didn’t seem at all bothered by Greg’s bolt upright, voice level and measured.

“So I keep…” Greg clenched his hands into fists. “What am I doing here, Mycroft? I’m not your Sub, right now I’m barely your friend, and _apparently_ I have no say in anything to do with _our_ son, so why am I here exactly?”

“You tell me.”

“Living breathing sex toy?” Greg yelled. “I’m not friend, lover or father so that’s the only thing left.”

“Of course you’re his father.” Mycroft murmured. “You know that.”

“I’m not talking about genetics.” Greg hissed.

“You needn’t-”

“Am I his father or not?” Greg demanded.

“Gregory-”

“ _Am_ I his father or _not_?” He snarled over Mycroft’s words.

“Yes.” Mycroft acknowledged. “Of course.”

“So I get a say in-”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Mycroft said nothing, eyes fixed on the centre of Greg’s forehead.

“Why _not?_ ” Greg’s fingernails were digging into his palm.

Mycroft said nothing.

“Right. Fuck this. I am not having this bloody conversation on my fucking own.” Greg spun and stormed over to the door.

“Greg-”

“Are you going to fucking talk to me or not?” Greg whirled around. Seeing the blank look on Mycroft’s face, his lips twisted into a sneer. “No? Fine, I can’t fucking deal with you right now.”

His coat was hanging on the coat rack just off the hallway, a fortunate circumstance as Greg couldn’t imagine making the trek up to his room with the seething anger roiling beneath his breastbone. He probably would have just left without it. Shrugging it on, he deliberately snubbed the umbrellas in their stand underneath, ignoring the clash of thunder as the rain pelted down even harder.

“Where are you going?” Mycroft’s voice was soft, enough so for Greg to pause with his hand on the door and turn his head, despite being furious.

He considered saying nothing, but the blank look was tense around the edges in a way that suggested worry or guilt and Mycroft’s hands were clasped as if to prevent them trembling.

He turned back to the door. Bloody wishful thinking.

“221B.” Greg replied curtly, pulling the door open. Then he added, not because he thought Mycroft would, but because he needed to feel like he’d had the last word, “Don’t call.”


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Afternoon all. Sorry about the cliffhanger; bit of an angsty moment I know. We won't be getting Mycroft's POV for a while, but there is some insight as to why he acts the way he does in this chapter. Coming, of course, from the resident Mycroft expert, the equally socially inept younger Holmes.
> 
> To answer question as to the babies gender and how Greg knows.... I based this off an older version of Omegavese I'd come across pre-Sherlock ever airing. Wasn't as well fleshed out, but suited better as a base given that I was then complicating things with Dynamics as well. Basically, there are only four genders: 3 male (Alpha, Beta, Omega), and 1 female (women). As an Alpha and Omega coupling will always give you an Alpha or Omega baby, they know the baby will be male, just not whether he'll be a Sire/Dom or Bearer/Sub (or given Mycroft and Greg, an atypical gender dynamic mix). Hope that helps clear things up a little. 
> 
> No real chapter warnings.

Greg felt like a drowned rat and reflected as he hammered on the door that it was his own fault for walking the whole way in the rain. Of course, the reason he’d walked from Knightsbridge to Baker Street was the same reason he was pounding on the door hoping someone opened it soon rather than using his key. The lack of a trip upstairs had left him wallet-less, key-less and phone-less.

“Now you listen to me - Detective Inspector!” Mrs Hudson had apparently been disturbed enough to move first. “Oh, you’re soaked right through, come in, come in. Now, you just give me that coat, oh it’s dripping everywhere. I think we might hang this over a bucket in the kitchen.”

She bustled off, leaving Greg dripping from every other item of clothing onto the foyer carpet. Moving wetly, he squelched his way up the seventeen steps to 221B, Mrs Hudson’s mothering tones admonishing him for not having an umbrella and oh all those footprints on the carpet, and knocked on the door.

If he were being truthful, it was less of a knock and more a full bodied thud as he leant on it, forehead connecting sharply with the refreshingly solid wood.

This week the door opened quickly, almost causing Greg to fall into John as he lost his support. The button up was mostly correct this time, though the last few buttons weren’t sitting quite smoothly so evidently he’d interrupted again, but the ruckus downstairs had given them a little more warning.

“You’re soaked.” John commented, stepping aside with a sigh to let Greg in. “What did you do, walk here?”

“Yes,” Greg replied bluntly.

He was glad he had. Over the course of the walk his anger had faded to a sort of numb tiredness.

John sighed and wondered off to find a towel, flicking the kettle on as he passed. Sherlock raised himself to his elbows and glared sulkily at Greg from his supine position on the couch.

If Greg had missed the more subtle clues in John’s attire that he’d barged in on something again, they were written in bold over Sherlock and he was making no effort to hide them. His midnight blue shirt was undone, one end untucked from his trousers, the other shoulder somewhere down his arm, leaving a lot on display. The dark blue only emphasised the alabaster and ebony contrast of his skin and dishevelled hair, making him appear even more like a renaissance artwork than usual. Artwork painted by an artist with more than untouchable purity in mind, with reddened kiss swollen lips and blatant seduction written into every line even as Sherlock sulked.

“Do you and my brother time your arguments?” Sherlock hissed, blue-grey eyes flashing. “Some kind of schedule to ensure they’re disruptive for everyone else?”

By everyone else, Sherlock clearly meant himself.

“What did he say this time, that you needed a better wardrobe?” He continued.

“That I had no say in our child’s name, actually.” Greg fired back without thinking.

Sherlock always had known how to push his buttons.

The look he received in return was pitiful disgust.

“Well of course not.” Sherlock pushed to his feet and stomped over to the fireplace where his shoes had landed almost in the fire. “Why would you?”

“Why would-” Greg chocked on his words disbelievingly. “He’s my son too.”

“Dear God, you’re pathetic.” Sherlock finished with his shoes and started towards the door. “As if that counts for anything.”

He pushed past Greg who stood there dumbfounded, totally shocked at what he was hearing from Sherlock.

“So what, you wouldn’t give John a say in your child’s name?” He managed belatedly.

Sherlock paused on the first step, fingers halfway through his buttons. “Of course, but then I’ve never been a contender for the world’s foremost example of filial piety, have I? Tell John I’ve gone to Barts.”

He was out the door, coat in hand and summoning one of his mystically available taxis, before Greg had gathered enough of his sluggish thoughts to form a coherent question.

“I heard. Here.” John passed a towel and a pair of worn scrubs into his hands. “Might be a little short, but better than drenched?”

“Uh, thanks.” Greg headed to the bathroom to change.

The scrubs were too short and Greg fancied they made him look ridiculous, ending where they did mid-ankle and leaving his feet sticking out like a hobbit’s. The top was fine though and they fit around the waist. He surrendered the bundle of wet clothes to John and the dryer as he exited, but kept the towel. He hadn’t felt totally comfortable wearing John’s trousers sans pants and didn’t want to leave a wet spot on the couch when they soaked through.

“So I’m guessing you heard that?” Greg sighed, accepting his cup of tea and settling into one of the armchairs.

“Flat’s not that big. Mycroft refusing to budge on his choice of name, then?” John sat opposite with his own tea in hand.

“Yeah.” Greg sighed again. “Won’t even open the topic.”

“Did he say what he wants?” John asked quizzically.

Greg grimaced.

“Oh come on. It can’t be that bad.” John grinned.

“Abernathy. Abernathy Emrys Holmes.”

“Oh.” John’s face froze. “That’s, that’s lovely, Greg. Very, um, traditional.”

“It’s going to get my son beaten up every day of school from kindergarten to A levels is what it is.” Greg snarled softly.

“Probably, yes, a few times.” John winced. “At least you can call him Ben? And Emrys isn’t bad. What kid doesn’t want to be a wizard, yeah?”

“Merlin, right?” Greg sighed lifelessly.

“That’s what the BBC tells me, so must be true.” John winked at him and managed to raise a small smile from Greg.

“How do you find time to watch these shows?”

“Stockpile them for when Sherlock gets bored and I need to ignore him?” John shrugged. “It’s not that hard, and you can catch up online readily enough when you miss one.”

“True. Do that for Doctor Who myself.” Greg acknowledged blandly, not really that interested.

John indicated the miserly stack of DVD’s half buried by Sherlock’s case files. “Himself keeps buying me the box sets. I think he secretly enjoys them.”

Greg almost let out a bark of laughter that didn’t go well with his mouthful of tea, and spent several seconds trying emphatically not to spry lukewarm liquid over John.

“Are you okay with the rest of it, though?” John asked sympathetically. “You know, him being a Holmes?”

“Huh? Yeah, that’s the only bit I am fine with, to be honest.” Greg sighed. “He was always going to have My’s name. It just makes more sense. Mycroft needs a public heir, and let’s face it, why be a Lestrade when you can be a Holmes?”

“I can think of a few reasons.” John mumbled into his tea, glaring at an unknown point.

“A couple, yeah,” Greg managed a weak chuckle. “This is also easier for secrecy, given Mycroft has to disappear anyway. So, no, yeah I’m fine with that. Might have liked to be asked so I could say so, but they don’t ask, Holmeses, do they?”

“No,” John agreed, “they tell you and look bewildered you haven’t jumped five steps with them.”

“Too right,” Greg slouched deeper into the couch. “And they don’t get that sometimes the question is as important as the answer.”

“More so with them. They can work out the answer.”

 _You prefer it_.

“Definitely.” Greg agreed, pushing the echo away.

They both sat quietly, occupied with their own thoughts. Greg tried not to squirm as an errant drop of water fell from his hair and trailed down his back, joining the sodden mess his pants were turning the towel into.

“What do you think you and Sherlock will name your kid?” He asked, curious to know what John would come up with.

“If we have one.” John replied bleakly.

“When you have one.” Greg said sternly. “It’s way too soon for you to have given up, so don’t give me any of that.”

“Sorry, Sir, when, Sir.” John smiled a cheeky sly smile Greg suspected had been a big hit for him when the Alpha was younger. “Not sure actually. The idea of maybe having one is so overwhelming I haven’t thought further. What did you come up with?”

“All sorts.” Greg sighed. “Anything I thought would be formal enough to suit Mycroft, but normal enough I could happily name a kid that. You know, Alexander, Edmond, that kind of thing.”

“Alex, Ed,” John waved his hands to indicate the etc.

“Yeah, open to pretty much anything as long as we chose it together – would have been happy with Quentin and that’s hardly common anymore.” Greg tried to be angry, but he just got bone weary tiredness instead.

“Mycroft didn’t take trying to discuss it well.” John didn’t bother to make it a question. Greg’s presence provided a clear answer.

“No.” Greg replied shortly.

“So you walked here?”

“Forgot my wallet.” Greg mumbled.

“Right.” John rolled his empty mug between his palms.

“Say it.” Greg rolled his eyes.

John’s eyes narrowed. “You won’t like it.”

“Gathered that.” Greg muttered into his mug.

“Really want me to say it?” John searched Greg’s face looking for confirmation. “You didn’t last week.”

“Just say it.” Greg was glad he was too tired to be properly sharp.

John studied him a little longer then nodded decisively, obviously deciding to say whatever he felt he had to.

“You and Mycroft have issues and you need to sit down and sort a lot of things that you’ve been skating past and ignoring.”

“That’s your great pronouncement?” Greg laughed in shock. “I know that, it’s how I ended up here.”

“You didn’t want to hear it last week.” John replied. “Refused to.”

“Yeah, well,-”

“I’m not talking about baby names, Greg. I’m talking about what you are to each other. I’m talking about who you are to the baby.”

“I’m his father.” Greg hissed, back going rigid as John scraped close to the bone. “His Sire.”

“The public doesn’t know that.” John pointed out reasonably. “Will he? Should he? Kids don’t keep secrets well, when is he old enough to know?”

“I…” Greg stuttered as John ploughed on.

“Are you going to tell him you’re together? Are you going to tell him you’re gay to cover it up? Are you going to tell the wider public? If not, is the physical side of your relationship going to continue since he can’t find out? If it doesn’t, what’s left? You and Mycroft didn’t go into this in a way people would really consider freely consenting on either side. Without the sex and the pheromones, what’s left? Friends? Will you be seeing other people?”

“I don’t want to see other people.” Greg sounded as bewildered as he felt.

“Is that the pheromones talking? Even if it’s not for you, will Mycroft want to look elsewhere, especially if the physical side of things doesn’t continue? Will you be okay with that?”

“Mycroft doesn’t like dating, he won’t.” Greg tried to sound convincing.

John leant forward intently. “Until last week you didn’t even know you weren’t his Sub, not _really_ , not in the important ways, no matter what you claimed in retrospect. This child is not going to be recorded as yours. What legal rights will you have, will you be formally adopting him, and when? How old will he be when you do? If things do go south between you and Mycroft, what will happen to him?”

“I…I…”

Some of it were vague thoughts he’d almost half formed himself, but never to completion and never so brutally. Before he would have said that his son would know him, that he would grow up knowing him as more than his father’s friend and lover, but now he _didn’t_ know whether that would be true, not if he wasn’t even involved in choosing their baby’s name.

He and Mycroft would stay together, of course they would, and the one thing he could be assured of was that with Mycroft’s attitude to it all, even if they didn’t continue the sexual side of everything, he would be the only person in Mycroft’s life in that way. It might not be him, but there wouldn’t be anyone else.

But the baby…how much of a role would he be allowed? Would he have a say in bedtime stories and outings and activities, or would he be relegated to babysitter and close stranger? It was a terrifying thought that last week he would have denied, denied, denied, but Mycroft wouldn’t even let him -

No, he would be allowed into his son’s life. He would. Mycroft wouldn’t deny him that, not when he was having the baby for Greg, at Greg’s request, only because of him. He wouldn’t be shut out of their son’s life.

Would he?

“What are Mycroft’s expectations, Greg?” John asked kindly. “What are yours?”

“Whatever he wants.” Greg replied softly. “That’s what I promised. Whatever he can give me, as much or as little, that’s enough. It’ll always be enough.”

John flexed his jaw, but didn’t comment on Greg’s statement. “The two of you need to talk about these things, if you can’t then you may need to consider calling it all off because it won’t work. This needs to be a partnership, especially with a child involved.”

“It will work.” The sharpness Greg thought he was well past exploded out before he had time to even register what John had said.

Of course it would work. Mycroft was his friend, his love and carrying his baby. Greg wold not leave him, ever, no matter what John said.

“Mycroft won’t bring these topics up, you’ll have to.” John warned. “It won’t be easy.”

“We are fine.” Greg hissed, body straightening as he instinctively defended the challenge.

“I’m not challenging you, Greg,” John sounded weary, leaning back in his seat, giving Greg the extra space, “but you are not fine.”

“We are fine.” Greg tilted his chin up and broadened his chest, mimicking the actions he’d seen Sherlock use when aggravated.

John sighed and pushed out of his chair. “I told you you didn’t want to hear it. Discussion over, mate, I’ll stop. Stand down.”

Greg watched John walk out of the room and didn’t feel his body relax until the Alpha Dom was in the kitchen fiddling with the kettle for another cup of tea, the great English cure-all.

He and Mycroft would be fine. Of course they would be and he would not hear otherwise.

John continued shuffling things around in the kitchen, dishes clinking with soft thuds as he moved items around. The fridge door gave a sticky welch as he opened it a few times, the seals resisting the motion until the last. If there was one thing Sherlock had splurged on, it was a good quality fridge to ensure his experiments weren’t compromised.

The water ran, then stopped, several drawers shuffled out and hitched their way back in on unsmooth tracks until they came to a juddering halt in place. More bangs, and thuds, and clinks as John continued whatever he was doing, which was obviously more than just fixing tea.

“Anything on TV tonight?” Greg called, wondering whether he’d offended John in some way.

John instantly reappeared in the sitting room, tea in hand. It wasn’t until Greg felt his chest start to clench, then give in and relax that he realised John had been giving him space to calm down, nothing to do with the tea in his hands.

“Where’s mine, then?” He demanded, holding out his empty mug.

“Kettle’s over there.” John picked up the remote. “Fridge is safe. Get your own.”

“Prick.” Greg muttered loudly enough for John to hear and walked into the kitchen head high, ignoring the massive wet circle on his arse.

John wasn’t quite sniggering when he sat back down. “Movie or TV?”

~*~

Greg ended up spending the night on the couch again as Sherlock still hadn’t cleaned off the spare bed and John was refusing touch it, whatever it was. Clearly it wasn’t biological in nature because John had a clear time limit on how long they were permitted residence in the flat, but when Sherlock was involved that didn’t mean it was normal, legal or otherwise suited for a domestic household.

It meant Greg was very glad he’d used the towel. Sleeping in the wet patch was never fun, but was at least bearable when there had been some enjoyable exertion involved in creating it.

It also meant that Greg had spent the night lying there trying to quiet his thoughts enough to sleep under the deliberately ignoring him eye of Sherlock Holmes, who had breezed in around midnight, plonked down at his Dom’s side and proceeded to sneer at the Bond film Greg and John had eventually settled on. He had quieted when John asked in a light voice whether he thought Mycroft would like a fluffy white kitten for Christmas, and sat out the rest of the movie in disdainful, but mildly approving, silence.

Greg really hoped Mycroft’s Christmas present didn’t have air holes. He wasn’t quite sure what his rather particular love would do with a rambunctious kitten.

Unlike John, who had traipsed off to bed not long after the movie finished, first furnishing Greg with the blanket and pillow he’d used last time, Sherlock had merely moved into the kitchen and started to tinker with his laptop and microscope. This had left Greg trying to sleep in the darkened sitting room feeling slightly paranoid that his sort of brother-in-law could read his every thought each time he twitched. His paranoia wasn’t helped when Sherlock rolled his eyes, sighed in exasperation, and then stood to close the connecting doors.

At least it helped block a little of the light.

Greg woke up grumpy, mainly due to choppy interrupted sleep and intense dreams that he couldn’t remember, but left a bitter, angry-sad taste in his mouth and the tight knot aching in his chest, all most likely fuelled by all the thoughts he’d been pushing away as he had tried to get to sleep.

Luckily John was already awake and had made coffee. He smiled at Greg as best he could with toast hanging out one side of his mouth and tilted his head towards the coffee.

“Ish’s fresh, closhes should be done inna dryer. Make shure he eash.” Without another word, he dashed out the door, toast still hanging from his mouth, tie flapping undone around his neck.

“Late for work? How’d he pull a Sunday shift?” Greg asked.

Sherlock, still sitting at the table with laptop and microscope, grunted.

Greg sighed and gingerly opened the bread bin, just in case Sherlock was using it to store something that wasn’t bread. John must have cleaned it out recently as other than a half-finished loaf there were only a couple of petri dishes tucked right at the back. Given John had been eating toast on his way out, Greg assumed the bread was safe.

He poured his coffee and ate his toast in silence, letting his natural morning distemper fade away with the provision of his morning caffeine dose. The bad mood from lack of sleep he was used to controlling by now, though if he ended up being called in to work he made no promises to play nice.

John had left fresh towels in the bathroom, which meant Greg could shower before redressing in dry clothes. Scrubbing his hand over his face, he wished that he had a razor. Unlike Sherlock, who as far as Greg could tell had been sitting at the kitchen table without moving all night and didn’t have the slightest hint of a beard coming in (an Omega trait), Greg did fall victim to five o’clock shadow, or right now, morning after stubble. That was a price of being an Alpha – fast growing body hair.

Returning to the kitchen table he studied Sherlock over the rim of his second cup of coffee. The Omega ignored him, whether because he was ignoring him or because he was so far buried in his own head he didn’t realise Greg was there, it was difficult to tell. Greg was leaning towards the former, attempting for the latter. It would be possible to talk to Sherlock, but only if Greg managed to capture his interest.

He had to ask the right question. Otherwise, Sherlock wouldn’t even deign to hear him.

The question he wanted answered was ‘why won’t Mycroft let me help choose our child’s name and why aren’t you surprised/appalled by this?’ That was also the obvious question, and would fly straight past Sherlock’s head as if Greg hadn’t opened his mouth

He needed to ask the right question, the intelligent question, the insightful question, not the obvious one.

He sipped his second coffee, forcing his mind through mental gymnastics he didn’t really want to perform at that time of the morning.

“Who chose your name?” Greg asked eventually, not bothering to raise his voice. Sherlock wasn’t so lost in thought he needed to drag him out of it, just get him to stop tuning him out.

Sherlock didn’t look up from his microscope, but a half smirk pulled at one side of his full lips. Greg could almost hear him saying “ _Good, Inspector, good_ ” in the overly patronising, arrogant tone he always delivered his compliments in when he felt people around him had been semi-intelligent. Positive reinforcement, Sherlock-style.

“Our paternal grand-sire named both of us.”

“Your grand-sire?” Greg repeated.

The smirk disappeared off Sherlock’s face and he fiddled with something under the microscope while touch typing something onto the laptop one handed. Greg cursed in his head. Sherlock hated it when people repeated information pointlessly. A rookie mistake and it had cost him ground in the game.

Sherlock and Mycroft were named by their grand-sire. Specifically, their paternal grand-sire. Did that matter?

Yes, Greg decided, it mattered, because this was Sherlock and otherwise he wouldn’t have specified. So what was special about the fact it was their paternal grand-sire?

Their Sire’s Sire. Alpha’s Alpha.

Their sire was dead, Mycroft had told him and John that, and given Mycroft and Sherlock’s ages it was unlikely their Grand-Sire was still alive. Which meant his next question should be…

“So does that make Mummy the head of the family?”

“In a manner of speaking.” Sherlock deigned to lift his gaze from the microscope. “It’s complicated.”

He sat there waiting for Greg’s response, elbows crossed in front of him on the table. When Greg didn’t say anything, he sighed and leant back in his chair, grey eyes trained on Greg’s face.

“I assume my brother has made you aware of the reaction to his presenting as an Omega?”

“He said enough I know it wasn’t good.” Greg replied cautiously. “He didn’t say anything explicitly or go into specifics.”

“I doubt he ever will.” Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “There’s a reason my brother is so good at his job. International politics has nothing on the Family.”

The capital letter was audible.

“Sounds wonderful.” Greg’s own broken family was sounding better and better, even by implication.

“If you enjoy machination with pre-dinner cocktails. Personally I prefer to limit my obligatory contact to Mycroft, and that’s only because the fat lout won’t stay away.”

“But Mycroft doesn’t share your view.” Greg decided to ignore the insult in favour of information gathering. It wasn’t like Mycroft needed Greg to protect his honour, especially from Sherlock, and right now Greg was still too annoyed with him to bother on principle.

Sherlock arched an eyebrow and didn’t say anything, arms still crossed over his chest, gaze firm.

“Because he’s trying to make up for being an Omega.” Greg supplied the answer for himself. “He should be the head of the family, oldest Dominant son of the previous Alpha, but he’s not an Alpha and being traditional, as an unbounded Omega he can’t hold the position, and if he Bonds, it passes to his bond-mate, not him.”

The last was conjecture, but Greg had watched enough period dramas courtesy of Josephine to work out some of the internal manoeuvring that must be occurring behind the scenes.

“So right now,” he mused, “the dowager duchess is running the Family.”

“Marchioness, actually.” Sherlock looked slightly approving.

“Oh.” Greg had been being sarcastic, but on reflection, of course the family had a title somewhere in it. You didn’t own a house like that in Knightsbridge without a title somewhere along the line to match the family money.

“Mycroft’s a Dom.” He said slowly. “The public think he’s an Alpha.”

“Yes.” Sherlock drew the word out in a way that suggested Greg was losing his interest fast. “That’s why it’s complicated.”

Greg switched tacks. He’d work out how he felt about that not entirely unobvious revelation that Mycroft should be a Lord of some sort later.

“Mycroft said he chose Abernathy.”

“Pride would hardly let him say otherwise.” Sherlock replied coolly. “Technically I suppose one could say he chose it off the approved list Mummy would have returned to him.”

“So he did choose it. Who chose the list?” Greg had no doubt the submissions would have come from all Mycroft’s PA’s hopefully tedious research.

“He would have submitted a selection of his preferred relatives for approval. That does not mean any of them would have been returned on the list, nor is it likely to have affected what was on it. A formality, you could say.”

Sherlock’s gaze was still heavy. He was waiting for Greg to get something, to ask something. As usual when that look was levelled on him, Greg had no idea what he was meant to be reaching for.

“And how long would this list have been?”

Maybe if there had been some other options Greg could talk Mycroft into one of them. They couldn’t be too bad, not all of them. He could live with quaint, for example. Maybe one of them would just be quaint.

“Anywhere from one to one hundred. Given Mummy’s current attitude, I suspect the former.”

Greg sat quietly while he let things arrange in his head.

“So let me get this straight.” He finally said. “The illustrious Mummy has chosen our son’s name, and under the family rules that’s it, done and dusted. Mycroft won’t challenge this because he’s still trying to make up for some mistake of biology thirty years old that’s not even his fault.”

“Succinctly put, Inspector.”

It sounded like an insult.

“And I’m supposed to go along with this?” Greg wasn’t sure whether he was incredulous or angry.

It’s been sorted, indeed!

“The Family would never have contemplated otherwise.”

“Right, so because your family has a stick up its collective arse, my kid gets saddled with a crap name he’s got to live with for the rest of his life?” Greg drummed his fingers on the table, anger beginning to work its way to the fore for another round. “That’s bollocks.”

“Possibly.”

Sherlock sat like he was in an interrogation room. Greg had seen the posture before, the crossed arms, the guarded pose, but for once Sherlock was actually answering questions and providing information on the Holmeses. His body language didn’t match the quantity of his answers. Greg didn’t flatter himself his questions had been all that clever, which meant Sherlock was getting something out of this, something more than just goodwill. There was something he wanted.

Greg ran his cop’s eye over Sherlock.

“You think I should press the issue.”

“I think it’s been thirty one years.” Sherlock’s voice didn’t waver, didn’t change pitch or tone or volume or cadence. It still sounded like a challenge.

“You think he needs to get over his issues. Welcome to the club.” Greg slouched down and stared diagonally over Sherlock’s shoulder. “It’s not my job to fix his problems when he won’t even let me know they’re there. I don’t know what you’re expecting, but there is no way Mycroft is going to open this topic, let alone take on Mummy over a name if he hasn’t over all the other shit I presume has been going on, so like it or not, your nephew’s name’s apparently going to be Abernathy.”

Sherlock continued to stare a hole into Greg’s head. He didn’t seem to blink. “Give in to him over this, what else will you yield? You’re kidding yourself if you think you’ll start standing up to him once the baby’s born if you don’t do it now.”

Greg glared holes in the wall of the kitchen, insulted beyond belief that it wouldn’t catch fire while Sherlock’s gaze burnt on his forehead.

“That’s not true.” He countered. “I just don’t see-”

“Do stop lying to yourself, Lestrade. It is indescribably tedious.” Sherlock’s voice was a whip crack through Greg’s half-hearted attempt at denial.

They sat there in silence, Sherlock glaring at Greg, Greg trying to bore holes in the wall. The deadening quiet was broken only by Greg’s arrhythmic tapping on the kitchen table.

“Fucking Hell, this is going to be it, innit? This is going to be our issue.” Greg swore and rapped his knuckles angrily on the table surface, bringing his tapping to a halt. “Every couple has that one stupid irrational thing they can’t agree on no matter how simple it bloody is, cause that’s The Issue and if you give in on that, you lose, and this is it. Our kid’s name. Fuck.”

He stood and stormed to the toaster, slamming down the lever harder than was required. The toast took too long to cook. Impatiently he jabbed at the cancel button once it was halfway to brown and dragged the knife over it in an entirely slapdash manner.

“Eat.” He dropped the plate loudly at Sherlock’s elbow.

Sherlock didn’t say anything, watching him mutinously.

“Just bloody eat it, Sherlock.” He collapsed down in his seat and resumed glaring holes in the wall.

Sherlock studied him a few moments longer, then relaxed. The tension that had been hovering in the room since Greg began the extraction process dissipated as Sherlock took a bite of toast and resumed ignoring Greg in favour of whatever he had under the microscope.

Greg didn’t really care, angry thoughts chasing themselves around his head, the most prevalent of which was ‘why fucking me?’

John was only on a half day and leant Greg enough money for a taxi back to his wallet without comment. Standing on the doorstep and having to ring his own doorbell was a humiliation Greg wasn’t looking forward to, but fiddling in his pockets as the cab trundled down the street revealed a loose key that had not been there before, yet mysteriously fit his front door.

Greg made a mental note to slip it to John next time he saw him. It would be less embarrassing than having to return it directly to Sherlock.

“You’re back.” Mycroft appeared to have a habit of catching Greg partway up the stairs. Like last time his eyes swept appraisingly over Greg and there was a hint of softening in his shoulders when he was done. “The sofa again, I see.”

“Hardly going to share the bed.” Greg retorted. “Threesome with your brother and his Bonded a little beyond my kinky side.”

“Quite.” Mycroft’s chin jutted out at the suggestion, clearly not appreciating the humour in Greg’s statement. That was fine as Greg hadn’t tried to be funny.

Assessment done, Mycroft turned to go back to his study.

“Had an interesting little chat with Sherlock earlier. He was obviously feeling informative for once.”

Greg watched Mycroft’s step hitch slightly as he froze, before his training countered the movement and turned it into a dramatic, sweeping about face.

“Indeed?” Mycroft asked, eyebrow delicately arched. “Was he waxing poetically about the flight paths of bees again?”

“No, more like ‘machinations and pre-dinner cocktails’, but he did clarify a few things.” Greg glared over the railings. “Things that _you_ should have said, Mycroft, and I don’t care what Mummy _commands_ , we are not naming our son Abernathy Emrys, I am still pissed off at you, and don’t think we won’t be having a very long talk about this later.”

He stomped up the rest of the stairs before Mycroft had a chance to respond. He reached the landing then stomped back down just enough steps he could see Mycroft over the railing as a nasty thought occurred to him.

“What was your Sire’s name?” He demanded harshly.

“Our-”

“His name, Mycroft.” Greg interrupted fiercely. “What was it?”

Mycroft paused, hand on the banister as he watched Greg.

“Siger.” He said finally, voice soft.

“Good.” Greg nodded, relieved. “That’s good.”

The anger drained out of him, disproportionally appeased by the fact that no matter what happened, his son wouldn’t have _His_ name.

“A distant relative, some generations back.” Mycroft’s gaze was gentle, and when their eyes met Greg felt like they might actually be in agreement over one thing.

“We’re still going to have that talk.” He warned, and continued to his room without looking back.


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And out of the generosity of my heart... No, sadly not. I'm going to be away for work on Wednesday, so I'm updating before I leave so you can at least have a chapter. It does start a little slow, but it picks up I promise.
> 
> Nothing new to add to the warning list.
> 
> If you want to see photos of the dress I used as a basis for Anthea's, I'll put the link at the bottom. It's not exact (the jewels however, are), but it might help with the visual a little.

Dinner was not pizza, but there was beer (a six pack had mysteriously appeared in the fridge last weekend and Greg made a point of fetching one). Mycroft cooked, Greg laid the table, and the meal was …pleasant, full of short silences that were generally fillable. It was a thousand times better than Greg had been anticipating that time the night before.

That didn’t meant that it was good, and, ignoring the feeling he was shooting off his nose to spite his face, Greg pointedly walked past Mycroft to his own room without looking back when they both went upstairs to bed.

He doubted his resolve would last. Lying there in his cold empty bed, devoid of the reassuring warm scent that filled Mycroft’s room, he just prayed he could last long enough to force some sort of conversation. Being back in the house, he was finding it incredibly hard to maintain his righteous anger, biology working to smooth over the rift and reconcile him with his mate.

Not that he was really _angry_ anymore, that had petered out yesterday and been well and truly smothered by Sherlock. It was more a churning mess of frustration, annoyance, and disappointment. Lots of disappointment. Given time he had no doubt it would work its way back up to anger, but right now, his heart just wasn’t in it.

It was hardly surprising there was a completely separate mess behind all this. Greg had expected some sort of on-going problem given the distinct lack of involvement of any other members of the Holmes family in the brothers’ lives, but he’d been expecting a family argument or general reserved distance because Holmeses didn’t do ‘that caring lark’, not a real life Family Feud.

Did it count as a feud if only one side was fighting? Sherlock had certainly implied rather heavily that Mycroft was conceding everything, never pushing back in an effort to make up for something that could never have been his fault.

Mummy, Greg decided, must be one hell of an Omega to overawe Mycroft to this day and continue to hold a position that should as far as anyone else knew be his without anyone causing a fuss.

Had someone caused a fuss? What would/did happen to them?

Work was a welcome distraction, but the closer to five it got the more Greg found himself fidgeting until one minute past when Sally shoved him out the door declaring he was useless to her if he couldn’t concentrate. He could hear the undercurrent of concern in her voice so didn’t fight, letting her assuage her worry over whether or not his behaviour indicated a relapse by taking care of him.

Overall Greg thought it might have been easier if Mycroft’s Sire had been an Abernathy. The knowledge that he wasn’t had completely taken the wind out of Greg’s sails, leaving him in a lull where he knew he needed to fight that fight, but felt too much relief and too little anger to do so. He tried half-heartedly over dinner that night (“So Sherlock mentioned a list. What else was on there to choose from?” “Sigerson.”), but that had ended prematurely when Greg grabbed Mycroft’s neck over the table and pulled him into a searing kiss borne of gratitude and adrenaline.

As a result, most of Tuesday was spent mentally grousing over the fact the easy way out was closed to them and that Greg was going to have to convince Mycroft to get over his childhood issues, which he would undoubtedly refuse to acknowledge, and confront Mummy, all in roughly five months, give or take a bit, a substantial portion of which they were going to be separated for.

He consoled himself that even if he didn’t manage successfully, Abernathy was better than Sigerson. Quite apart from it being in homage to Mycroft’s bastard of a Sire, there were no good nicknames for Sigerson. At least Greg could always raise Abernathy as Ben in an attempt to give him some small measure of normal. Except now it wasn’t about that, not anymore, thanks to Sherlock. Now it wasn’t just whether their kid would be able to find a mug with his name on it, it was about Greg and Mycroft and how the rest of their relationship was going to play out.

Before leaving the Yard, Greg convinced himself that unless they managed to sort things surreally fast, he was going to sleep alone that night on principle and would not be swayed by lust, no matter how good Mycroft smelt.

At dinner Mycroft told Greg he’d be flying out for a two week summit next Friday and would go straight from there into the secure housing he’s arranged as he’d be approximately 23 weeks and starting to look distinctly larger.

Greg tried to summon some guilt or self-directed anger, but lying twined around Mycroft as the Dom’s breathing smoothed into sleep, basking in the afterglow of a _very_ successful session, it was too hard to manage anything other than sleepy contentment.

If Greg spent Wednesday stretching to luxuriate in the strain of well used and slightly sore muscles, or running fingers along raised welts hidden under his work shirt to feel the lingering sting, then it was no one’s business, but his own.

Thursday, he promised himself drowsily as he dropped a stray kiss on his somnolent love’s shoulder blade. He’d bring it up tomorrow. Thursday.

Thursday might as well have been vomited forth by the bowels of hell.

First there was a murder, breaking their almost week long run without a new major case. Missing persons reports were packed away again (body still unidentified), paperwork was put on hiatus, and the team dragged their butts out to the crime scene.

The wet crime scene.

Because apparently, the middle of the Thames was a great place to try and dispose of your cheating spouse.

And if you were trying to frame it was an accident, of course you would do it when the weather was expected to turn nasty in order to claim they accidentally slipped off the boat and fell into the water.

And of course, by the time Greg got there, the weather was really about to unleash hell.

In one ear he had Anderson yelling at him about submergence in the Thames and tainting of evidence; in the other he had Sally, who was, naturally, on the Health and Safety committee.

To try and find the corpse or not to try and find the corpse?

Adding to the din were the broken hearted wails of the almost-victim, who unluckily for his Dom had known a lot more about boats than she had, and adulterer or not, he most certainly had not wanted her dead. Just to pay more attention to him apparently, if the very loud sobs into the paramedic’s shoulder were to be believed.

Greg could see the paperwork mounting on his desk with every passing second as Health and Safety incident form after Health and Safety incident form piled themselves higher and higher. If he sent the divers and his team out there would be hell to pay.

If he didn’t management would have his bollocks for not retrieving their would-be-murderer’s corpse before it disappeared somewhere miles away, having merrily been washed downstream by the river’s polluted waters.

To make matters worse, the longer they stood there arguing about it, the more likely the three of them were to be pulled up on report, even if it was all being conducted in level, reasonable tones.

Well, two of them as bloody Anderson didn’t fall under Mulgrave and Packenham’s jurisdiction.

Damned if you do, damned if you don’t.

Greg sent them out on a time limit. Better to be damned and have a corpse than be damned without one.

The divers located the body just as the rains reached them. Having insisted on going out on the boat so no one could claim he wasn’t putting himself through the same as everyone else, Greg spent the ride back to the shore holding back one of the constable’s long hair as she vomited over the side, rain soaking his coat, then jacket, then shirt. Every time the boat lurched off another choppy, storm swept wave, Greg felt like joining her.

When they got back to the river bank, they discovered it was the wrong body.

That left Greg with two dead bodies, one located, one not, a stack of Health and Safety forms, a queasy stomach and wet pants for the second time in less than seven days. By the time he arrived home, late, he was in such a foul mood Mycroft wordlessly handed him one of his remaining four beers before Greg had even crossed the kitchen threshold.

Sometimes it was an utter relief to live with an omniscient aspiring-God. Greg didn’t have to explain anything, just took the beer and collapsed on his knees next to Mycroft’s chair, laying his head on the wool clad thigh, heedless of his rainwater soaked hair ruining the expensive trousers. After a moment’s hesitation, Mycroft’s fingers began stroking through the short strands.

Greg sighed in relief as Mycroft sent him down, taking away the stress, the anger, the guilt, the uncertainty, everything. He didn’t fully surface until Mycroft shook him awake the next morning with half an hour to get ready for work after Greg had slept through both their alarms.

Greg didn’t need John to tell him he and Mycroft were developing a pattern of avoidance, nor did he need it pointed out to him that they were repeating it again – vehemently ignoring the problems hanging over their heads in favour of acting as if everything would be okay if they just kept going.

They’d talk tonight, then. Last night it just couldn’t have happened, not with the mood Greg had ended up in. Any attempt to talk would have degenerated into a screaming fight and a trip back to 221B, just like last time, getting them nowhere.

When Greg got home, straight after dinner.

Greg’s resolve lasted until lunchtime when Sally dropped a pile of DVD’s on his desk that she’d fetched while changing after a nasty fall on the wharf that morning. Included in the stack were the new Star Trek and two stand-up DVD’s he’d been begging her to lend him for ages.

Tomorrow, Greg decided, eyeing the DVD stack greedily. They could talk tomorrow. After all, Mycroft was leaving in a week so this would be their last Friday night together for months and there was no reason to destroy it by shattering the tentative camaraderie they’d sort of achieved.

Sitting on the end of the couch, stuffing his face with Chinese food and watching Mycroft in the armchair next to him as Mycroft watched the TV, Greg couldn’t really manage to feel properly, shamefully guilty.

With two dead bodies (still only one in his possession), Greg was forced to drag his weary limbs out of bed, forgoing another pleasant Saturday lie-in. He did take the liberty of dropping a kiss on Mycroft’s jaw. The sleepy nuzzle he received in return before Mycroft sank back into unconsciousness almost made him climb back into bed.

“Tonight,” Greg whispered, pausing in the doorway to look back, a quiet promise to both of them.

The pathology report had come in on the (additional) dead body from the Thames, along with a fingerprint ID. There was a brief debate over the phone with Sally whether it was worse to contact the family on a Saturday and destroy their weekend or to wait until Monday leaving them in limbo. Given someone had cared enough to file a missing persons report as soon as the police were able to entertain the application, they settled on contacting them once Sally got to the station and they could set out.

The waiting gave him time to think.

Thinking was bad, because thinking forced him to run through all possible ends to the evening, including the vast number of possibilities where he and Mycroft didn’t make up after the almost inevitable screaming, leaving Greg forcefully excluded from the rest of Mycroft and their Son’s lives.

He pulled out the book he’d stashed in his lunch bag to read over his break since no one would be in on a Saturday to notice and dove back into the biology, forcing himself to recite various milestones from memory, week-by-week. Anything to not have to think about the fact that this book might be the closest to his baby he ever got.

“What _are_ you reading?” Sally leant over his shoulder, peering at the text.

“Jesus!” Greg started in his seat, jumping high enough to almost hit Sally in the chin with his shoulder. “Bloody hell, you nearly gave me a heart attack.

“Anything you’d like to share, Sir?” Sally drawled in an amused tone.

Closing the book in frantic move, Greg yelled at himself for lying it down on the desk to read rather than holding it in his hands, for reading it when Sally was coming, for bringing it to Scotland Yard.

“What, no, it’s not for… No!” Greg stuttered out in a panic.

“Uh huh.” Sally eyed him knowingly, giving him a sly smile. “Of course it’s not, Sir.”

“Donovan!” Greg growled.

“Well, you did have that dinner just before Christmas…” She trailed off meaningfully.

“With Mycroft!” Greg bellowed, trying to slow his pounding heart.

“Oh yes, Sir.” Sally nodded sagely. “With Mycroft, of course.”

She winked at him, unable to repress the smirk spreading over her face.

“It’s research.” Greg huffed, knowing his face was traffic light red. This had been such a stupid idea.

“Oh yes, research, sir.” Sally agreed. It probably shouldn’t have been possible for her smirk to get any larger, but it did.

“Well did _you_ know it is potentially fatal for an Omega to pass their heat with a Beta?” Greg shot back, mind scrambling for any possible excuse as to why he was reading a book on the Estrus cycle and pregnancy.

He mentally slapped himself just after. He should have gone simple, said it was in preparation for Sherlock’s next Heat and mini-Holmes of another description running around.

“No, it’s not.” Sally shook her head. “Omegas pass their Heat’s on their own all the time without an Alpha.”

“Not without an Alpha, with a Beta.” Greg corrected her. “Apparently there is a difference.”

“Really?” Sally asked dubiously.

“Apparently.” Greg stuffed the book in the bottom of his desk. “I was talking to John and he mentioned it. Saw it in Afghanistan. They had a huge number of incidents over there.”

“I think that might just be something Alphas like to put out there to try and keep Omegas for themselves, Lestrade. No disrespect or anything.” She tacked on the end hastily.

“If I’d got it from Anderson I’d probably agree.” Greg stood and collected his jacket. “Don’t think John Watson’s the kind of Alpha though.”

They walked down to the carpark in silence, past on duty uniforms and a couple of detectives from other teams on shift or pulled in anyway like they were to deal with paperwork or cases. Greg nodded at Dimmock as the younger DI blearily strolled past with a large cup of coffee. Given Greg knew the dark shadows under his eyes weren’t work related, it certainly begged the question what had been keeping him awake and added a number of implications to the slight limp.

Sally climbed in the driver’s seat and held out her hand for the keys. Greg handed them over without argument. Small gestures like being the one to drive helped most Doms feel like they were in charge of the situation, so Greg rarely argued without a good reason and wasn’t going to protest today. As the stronger Dom out of the two of them, Sally had never bothered to question this especially as Greg spent most of the car trips napping or fielding texts from Sherlock.

“This is because of the Carson case, isn’t it?” She asked as they pulled out of the lot.

“Peter had a lucky escape.” Greg replied quietly. “And none of us knew how lucky until afterward.”

“Kid’s fine, Sir.”

“This time,” Greg agreed, “but it’s something I should have known, innit? What if it had been a suicide? We’d never have worked it out.”

“That was what you meant by fatal?” Sally hunched forward and tried to peer around the car next to her.

“John likened it to torture. They had some insanely high proportion of victims kill themselves.” Greg nodded. “Though to be fair, most of those John was dealing with were gang rape victims as well.”

“And because of that case you’re reading baby books?” Sally asked sceptically.

“I should have known.” Greg repeated, then smiled at the grimace on her face. “Sorry to disappoint, Donovan, but no kids yet. You’ll have to wait a bit longer to be promoted.”

Sally snorted and to Greg’s relief shut her mouth and stopped talking. He wasn’t sure he could bullshit his way through much more of that discussion without it being obvious.

Their stiff’s family, an elderly Sire and a distraught Alpha partner, took the news as Greg had expected – with much crying, distress and demands for justice. They did leave at last with their questions answered, and a few possible avenues of enquiry. Unsurprisingly there hadn’t been anyone who jumped out as an obvious suspect. There usually wasn’t. Digging would be required.

Being a Saturday Greg packed them both off home at four. They’d put in a solid day’s work, even if they didn’t work through until five, and Greg had a talk he owed himself and a future to work out.

Melissa in a floor length wine coloured gown and tasteful, but obviously expensive even to the untrained eye, gems was not quite what Greg had anticipated when he got home, so unexpected in fact he was halfway up the stairs to change before he registered exactly what he’d passed.

A second glance didn’t alter matters – his partner’s PA was standing elegantly in the parlour, shimmering in backless silk that came so close dipping too low in the front as well, her modesty preserved by the artful drape of the flowing material. Even so, the deep V sat precariously, threatening to reveal a lot more, a tantalising promise Greg had no doubt was held at bay by an excellent fit and miles of dress tape. The dress fell smoothly over her hips and emphasised how narrow her waist really was, if you were able to tear your eyes away to look at the rest of her body that was.

Even more difficult was raising his eyes to her face, artfully careless curls arranged to draw attention to her slender neck, full lips and high cheekbones. Greg didn’t think her eyes had ever looked more stunningly blue.

“Guh,” he managed before his tongue finally started working. “Still Melissa?”

“Call me Anthea.” She replied, long perfectly manicured fingers flying over her ever present Blackberry. “Dr Watson finds it a more convenient method of referring to me, as I’m sure you will too.”

“Um, yeah, right, Anthea.” Greg stumbled across the words, mind otherwise occupied trying to keep his eyes above her collarbones.

It wasn’t easy, especially with the necklace nestled against her sternum, drawing Greg’s gaze along its ropy pearl and diamond strands to the large ruby gleaming in the sunset with an unnatural fire. The piece looked old, Tudor at a wild guess because Greg thought it looked like something that belonged in one of his history books around the neck of Queen Elizabeth I, though he couldn’t be sure. He _was_ sure that the gems were real, that the necklace was a genuine antique not a replica, and that he really didn’t want to think about how much it was worth or that Anthea was wearing a matching bracelet and ring.

“Given that outfits probably a little, um, indecorous for wherever you’re going, I’m going to guess your job is distraction tonight.” Greg snapped his eyes back up to her face, cheeks flushing just the smallest amount.

“Indeed.” Anthea favoured him with a long slow blink. “Though the piece is clearly an antique necklace, it does unsettle a great number of our… enlightened colleagues.”

“Because the necklace is the only provocative item you’re wearing, of course.” Greg pointedly swept his eyes along her body, discovering as her weight shifted that the skirt was split to mid-thigh.

“Easy access.” She blinked innocently at his startled blush, and turned back to her phone with a smirk. “There is very little point in being armed if one cannot reach one’s weapon.”

Gregory François Lestrade _knew_ very few things as a matter of solid and indisputable fact. One of those things was that Anthea did not need to be armed to be dangerous. 

But those long legs in those stilettos sashaying around the room, tantalising glimpses of skin as the silk flowed and rolled around her… everyone in that room, young or old, Dom or Sub, would have their eyes glued on her, awaiting the next promised hint of leg, imagining running hands and tongues and teeth up the creamy unblemished skin. No one would be watching anyone else.

Unbidden the thought came to mind that in the past Mycroft had slid hands, teeth and tongue along that skin and much more of it than was on display; that he knew the taste, texture and scent of her body, just as he now knew Greg’s.

“Where are you off to that requires such a distraction?” Greg tried to keep his tone light.

Anthea’s eyes narrowed. “He hasn’t informed you.”

Greg shrugged, gut loosening as Anthea’s eyes flashed and lips pursed into a moue of distaste. No matter the past between them, this was not a woman who was expecting any such attention that night and who was looking very annoyed Greg hadn’t been kept in the loop.

Not that Greg thought Mycroft would do anything to cheat on him, the pregnancy guide he’d been reading had made it fairly clear that wasn’t really an option until after the birth even if he had been the type, and this was clearly for work, multi-million pound gems and all, but it was still nice, reassuring, to see the irritation on her face.

It would help keep the thoughts at bay once they’d left and all Greg’s niggling insecurities came out to play.

“Embassy ball.” Anthea told him, typing furiously on her keyboard.

She didn’t volunteer more and Greg, well aware of the limitations of classified information, didn’t ask. Instead he casually slumped into one of the chairs and waited for a break in her typing so he’d know for sure he wasn’t distracting her. She got there first.

“You’re surprisingly calm about him not telling you we had an engagement tonight.” Vivid blue eyes studied him over the top of her phone.

Greg shrugged. He wasn’t calm, not really, more like in the calm before the storm of delayed reaction, involving much anger, yelling and gnashing of teeth. He could feel it gathering, a sick feeling collecting every time the necklace caught and held his eye, but other than the knot in his chest tightening reflexively, he was gripped by none of it yet.

Mycroft’s footsteps drifted down the stairs, preceding the Omega like an understated heraldic chorus.

“The car has arrived, Abigail, unless there is anything else you require.” Mycroft’s voice trailed off as he stepped into the room and noticed Greg sprawled over the furniture.

After Anthea’s outfit Mycroft’s suit was a let-down of epic proportions. It was utterly unremarkable despite its flattering cut and obscene expense, but then Greg supposed that was the whole point of the venture. Even those who were aware of Mycroft’s role would be watching her, not him.

With the smallest of movements Mycroft drew himself up and met Greg’s eyes challengingly, mask of implacable defiance firmly in place. So that, Greg thought, was how it was going to be: a week of almost agreeable partnership and then Mycroft running scared and attempting to provoke a fight with Greg to remind him of his place. So much for any theories Mycroft had genuinely overlooked informing him. This was deliberate provocation.

Greg waved jauntily, refusing to rise to the bait and give Mycroft the satisfaction of reacting how he wanted him to. If he did, Greg had no doubt he would be reminded he had no claim and thus no legitimate cause for malcontent.

“Guess this answers whether or not you mind me going and watching the game tonight.” He smiled cheerfully. “And I’m sorry, but it must be said that you don’t hold a candle up to Anthea tonight.”

“Abigail.” Mycroft corrected smoothly.

“Anthea.” Greg repeated, flashing Mycroft a cheeky grin that was hiding only a slight razor edge of malice. “Apparently I rate my own special name.”

“Is that so?” Mycroft raised a cool brow and strolled out the door to collect his umbrella and coat from the stand. “I’m afraid we must be off, Gregory. Don’t wait up. We’ll be late.”

Assured Mycroft couldn’t see her and Greg could, Anthea rolled her eyes.

“I’ll have him home before two.” She promised.

“Take your time. Work’s important, and I wouldn’t want to get in the way of _work_.” Greg rose lazily from the chair, feeling icy daggers stabbing into his back as he stretched.

Not failing to notice the way Mycroft stiffened in his peripheral vision as Greg’s eyes unwittingly fixed on the ruby between Anthea’s breasts again despite his best efforts, he indulged in a more deliberate sweep of the eyes and a lascivious smile.

“Should I check there’s a room ready for you as well?” He asked, voice rumbling over the vowels in a very deliberate and suggestive manner.

“She has her own residence, Gregory, I assure you.” Mycroft snapped icily, spinning on his heel and storming for the front door.

At Anthea’s raised eyebrow Greg shrugged nonchalantly, feeling both spitefully happy he’d managed to get some of his own back and potently guilty at the thought of deliberately hurting his Omega in any way at all. She followed Mycroft with a disapproving look and what was possibly a muffled swear word, leaving Greg alone in the house.

The silence after the door shut was absolute. Greg hadn’t even made it to his bedroom before the sick oily nest of emotions started to break free and the thoughts began going round and round in his head, battering at his walls: pictures of Mycroft and her and that goddam necklace that made his throat ache with the absence of its weight. He wasn’t Mycroft’s Sub, and neither was she, but tonight people would look at her and wonder at the possibility of maybe.

No one would ever look at him and wonder if.

The knot in his chest constricted making it hard to breathe.

He wasn’t worried about anything happening, knew on some innate level that that just wouldn’t, that as long as Greg was living in this house, sleeping in Mycroft’s bed, there was no possibility of maybe, but that thrice damned necklace…

His hand was shaking wildly on the door knob, the silence echoing behind him.

He couldn’t stay here, listening to the silence and counting the seconds. He’d told Mycroft he’d intended to go to 221B to save face, so go to 221B he would.

This time he had his keys and wallet, so he let himself in and knocked on the upstairs door without having to disturb Mrs Hudson.

“I come bearing provisions.” Greg held up the six pack as John waved him through the door.

“Good, now hurry up, the game’s about to start.” John was already back in his armchair, eyes glued to the TV screen.

“There’s no match tonight.” Greg frowned, hand on the fridge door.

“Rugby, Greg. Football isn’t the only code in the world you know.” John was thrumming with excitement, energy barely contained by the chair.

“Just the best.” Greg teased.

“Door’s that way, heathen.” John pointed without looking. “Leave the beer.”

Greg chuckled and put five beers in the door of the relatively safe fridge. He didn’t look too closely at any of the containers, operating on the basis as always that it was safer not to know.

“So where’s Himself?” Greg asked, collapsing limblessly in Sherlock’s armchair and watching John almost vibrate out of his seat with tension as the teams took to the ground.

“Barts.” John rolled his own beer between his palms, eyes glued ferociously on the ball as the umpire prepared to start the game.

“So you could watch? Nice of him.”

John gave a light chuckle. “Not quite. Said he didn’t feel like being interrupted again when you barged through the door.”

“Hey!” Greg protested. “I’ll have you know I wasn’t going to come tonight.”

“And yet here you are. Oi, Ref!” John broke off to swear at the TV for a bit.

Greg joined in for the fun of it until the sponsor’s ad flashed across the screen and they scrambled into the kitchen for crisps and new beers before coverage resumed. John didn’t relax again until play stopped for half time. It was like watching a puppet with its strings suddenly cut, the way his whole body lost tension in one sweeping move.

“So what did drive you to our humble abode tonight?” John asked over the sport’s commentator’s sensationalised recap of the game so far.

“Nothing,” Greg replied, a little too much emphasis on the first syllable to sound convincing. “My’s got an embassy thing tonight and I found myself at loose ends, that’s all.”

“Didn’t want to accompany him? Mingle with the stuffy gits who run the world?” John teased him lightly.

“Watch it you,” Greg threw his bottle cap at John’s head. “I live with one of those stuffy gits. Besides, I don’t think I could properly fill the front of Anthea’s dress.”

“Looked good?” John asked idly.

Greg smirked, knowing that John had held quite the fascination with Mycroft’s PA for some while until Sherlock had put his foot down, despite the fact they weren’t even together at the time. Sherlock always had been possessive.

“Gobsmacking.” Greg took a swig of beer. “I’m not interested at all and I still had terrible trouble looking anywhere else, even with Mycroft in the room. She’s… uh… well-endowed.”

John grunted, but play resumed before he could say anything. The game was close, occupying even Greg’s reluctant attention as the teams fought it out violently in the mud. John was so busy yelling encouragement and abuse in turn that at the end of the game his beer was still three quarters full.

“Takeaway?” John sculled his beer as the teams trouped off the field and stood with a stretch.

“Cheaper and nastier the better.” Greg called after him. “I’ve been eating too much gourmet takeaway. Gimmie something greasy and oily and guaranteed to clog my arteries before I’m fifty.”

John’s chuckle echoed back through the open doors, soon followed by his voice as he began ordering Chinese. He made it half way through the order before another match began on the TV, this one an international game on delayed broadcast, and Greg had to confiscate the phone and finish the order to avoid John accidently insulting the poor person on the other end with his rather colourful language. Luckily the nice lady on the other end was used to the sports crowd.

Just to annoy John, and since England was playing France, Greg decided to cheer for the foreigners. John threw the Union Jack pillow at him.

“Traitor.”

A couple of wadded up bits of paper followed.

“My Da was French.” Greg protested, smiling as he held up a hand to shield his face.

“Hmm…” John tossed the last ball in his palm while he considered. “Nope, not an excuse.”

Greg ducked the projectile and cheered extra loudly as France scored a try. Out of projectile weapons, John settled for words and started a slagging match of epic proportions until the doorbell rang and Mrs Hudson yoo-hooed up the stairs to say their takeaway had arrived. Breaking off halfway through why the English half-back’s parents had engaged in questionable acts with a dog, Greg gladly stole John’s wallet and scrambled down the stairs to pay, breathless with laughter. By the time he got back up it was half time again and John had moved the coffee table into a more convenient position for dinner.

“Would Sir care for an hors d’oeuvre?” John mimicked the tones of the highbrow disapproving wait staff with ease as he held out the paper bag with the oily spring rolls.

“Don’t,” Greg choked on his laughter as he pulled a spring roll out. “Please don’t.”

“Sure you don’t want to recreate what you’re missing out on?” John teased, cracking a pair of chopsticks. “I can try and find a tablecloth and some proper silverware if you’d like.”

“God no!” Greg shuddered. “The silver lining to not officially being Mycroft’s partner is that I _don’t_ have to go to those things.”

“So what is bothering you then?” John nonchalantly took a bite off the end of his spring roll.

“Nothing.” Greg insisted. “Just hadn’t made other plans, that’s all.”

“So the talk went well then?” John looked at him hopefully.

“Sort of.” Greg squirmed a little. “I asked what other names were on the list and we agreed Abernathy Emrys was better than Sigerson Isaac.”

“Really?” John stared at him in disbelief. “They both sound awful to me.”

“Holmes Senior’s name was Siger.” Greg shovelled rice into his mouth.

“I can suddenly understand the appeal of Abernathy.” John picked out a piece of broccoli. “What else are the two of you considering?”

John took one look at Greg’s face, read the answer in the furtive eye shifting, and rolled his eyes. Luckily for Greg, play resumed and John let the subject drop with quite a bit of apparent relief.

“Why are you so interested in my relationship with My?” Greg asked as they were sipping beers watching the post-match interviews with the English team who looked self-satisfactorily smug despite only just winning.

“Because I’m your friend.” John took another swig.

“Bullshit. You wouldn’t give me the third degree every week if it were just that. Why?” Greg searched through the ruined remains of their takeaway for one last prawn cracker.

“Alpha instincts.” John lied brazenly. Greg didn’t even need to be looking at him to know he was lying.

“Yeah, sure. Try again.”

John didn’t say anything, crunching his way noisily through a fortune cookie.

“You can hardly expect me to tell you everything if you won’t even tell me why you care.” Greg pointed out.

The silence lingered until John sighed in defeat, surrendering in the face of Greg’s refusal to move on.

“Sherlock really wants it to work, thinks the two of you are made for each other.” John fished another cookie out from the wreckage, steadily not looking at Greg. “I don’t want him disappointed.”

“Sherlock?” Greg’s eyebrows rose as far up his forehead as they were able. “I get the third degree every week because you don’t want _Sherlock_ to be disappointed if _my_ relationship doesn’t work?”

“As a child he deleted the solar system, but for whatever sentimental reason of his own of all things kept happily ever after.” John’s eyes were a combination of liquid warmth and firm steel. “I don’t want him to lose that now.”

“So no pressure or anything, but don’t fuck it up? Thanks.” Greg avoided meeting those eyes any longer than he had to, pulse thrumming in his ears.

If it hadn’t been hard enough to navigate the emotional waters around his relationship before, apparently there was the additional weight of whatever childish innocence remained in Sherlock’s soul and fuck it if the brief glimpses of the hurting lonely child behind the haughty junkie’s eyes hadn’t been what had led Greg to taking care of him in the first place.

“It’s your life, Greg, your relationship. You’re not responsible for anything other than what you want.” John’s voice was soft. “But if I can do anything to help the two of you work things out so it does work, I’ll do it. That’s all.”

“Yeah, right. Thanks.” Greg worried at his lower lip.

“Really, Greg. Sherlock’s my responsibility, not yours. You just make sure you’re happy. Let me worry about him.”

Greg sighed, knowing that no matter what John said it would now always be in the back of his mind. It was nice to know Sherlock approved of him and Mycroft together, but he really could have done without that knowledge if it meant that he didn’t have to know that Sherlock believed in them so absolutely.

It was the sort of pressure Greg suspected single parents felt when their children fell in love with their partner, absolutely sure that this was the one that was going to stay and make their family whole. It was both reassuring and unpleasant. His relationship with Josephine hadn’t had this much pressure, and he had been hiding what he was from her.

“Greg.” John leant over. “I’m serious. Worry about you and Mycroft, not anyone else. You can’t do this for anyone other than you or it won’t work. Leave Sherlock to me.”

“I know, but… “ He trailed off, waiting for words that never arrived to describe how much he didn’t want to hurt Sherlock, about how the younger Sub had always felt like his responsibility in ways that he wasn’t and never would be, and how Greg didn’t want to disappoint him almost as much as he didn’t want to disappoint his son.

He hadn’t met his son yet; he wasn’t real as anything more than a concept and a slight swell Greg occasionally ran his hands over. Sherlock was there and alive and Greg had been taking care of him for so many years…

“I didn’t know. About tonight. My hadn’t told me.” It was easier to talk about that than the fact Sherlock was the surrogate child Greg had never wanted or asked for, yet, at a previous time in his life post-drugs and pre-John, had considered sleeping with.

When he didn’t want to strangle him.

Greg was resigned to the fact that his relationship with Sherlock Holmes was always going to be complicated and a little undefinable without sounding creepy in all the worst ways.

“Is that what’s got you all wound up?”

“Huh, no, not at all.” Greg shook his head. “That’s My. This week was too good. He seems to freak whenever he’s forced to acknowledge he cares, or that he’s been scared about something, or things are comfortable between us, god forbid.”

He tapped his beer bottle against his forehead absently. “Probably should have anticipated it, to be honest. That whole realisation that we both agreed their Sire was coming nowhere near our child in any name or form made it feel too much like we were working together for him I guess.”

“I hear you.” Greg looked up to see a sad smile on John’s face. “Self-sabotage every time to make sure you either come back or leave on his terms so he never has to admit to anything, as if that will stop it affecting him.”

“Sherlock?”

“Harry.”

“Ah.”

They both drained their already empty beer bottles to avoid looking at each other or saying anything.

“So, uh, what was bugging you then?” John tried very hard to find something else in the room to focus on.

Greg stood up and gathered the takeaway into a pile, then took it to the bin. He returned with two beers.

“She was wearing a necklace.” He huffed as he handed one to John. “It wasn’t a collar, really obviously not a collar, just a necklace.

“And I’m not,” He hurried to say as he sank into his chair before John could even open his mouth, “worried about him sleeping with her because I’m just not and don’t ask me to explain because I just _know_ that he won’t, but…”

They sat there in silence as John let him gather his thoughts.

“I’m not angry he deliberately didn’t tell me, I’m not worried, I’m just…” He was much too sober for this, and took a large mouthful of beer. “She’s wearing a necklace.”

“You’re jealous.” John said simply.

“Yes, no,” Greg groaned. “I don’t want to be there with My, god that’d be awful. I’m not jealous, I just…She gets to wear that thing and for her it’s meaningless, but people get to look.”

John nodded and let Greg focus elsewhere in the room until his eyes fell on a stack of DVDs and he pulled out a mindless action thriller with plenty of explosions. They watched the over the top acting, the completely fake gun fights, and cheesy romantic dialogue as the Alpha hero seduced two women and an Omega in turn.

“Are you staying here tonight?” John asked as the Alpha rode a motorcycle off a lorry to get away with the memory stick safely tucked in his jacket pocket. “Sherlock finally cleared off the other bed.”

“Nah.” Greg’s voice was rough from the enforced silence. “Anthea promised to have him back by two. Seems like handing him a victory if I’m not there.”

John nodded and they finished the movie in silence. Sherlock arrived home just as the credits began to roll, so Greg grabbed his coat and ran out the door calling good bye over his shoulder to catch the cab before it sped off. It saved awkward small talk and standing there through the condescending look Sherlock would be giving him having found him in his flat again, just as predicted.

It felt slightly ham fisted, like he was over stressing his point, but after changing into his sleepwear and hesitating at the door, Greg got into Mycroft’s bed to sleep. In the annoying mental chess game Mycroft seemed to be playing whether Greg was involved or not, there was no reason to let Mycroft know he’d accidently checked Greg’s king while trying to eliminate his queen. At least in the process Greg had been able to get some of his own back. He hadn’t come close to the King or Queen, but surely the look on Mycroft’s face as he’d left meant he’d at least stolen a knight or bishop.

He’d passed it off as being fine, so he’d act that way, not cower in his room in a mood.

It was strange, lying there in Mycroft’s bed in Mycroft’s room without Mycroft. His scent lingered, despite the fact he was gone and the room had been aired that day, infused into the walls and carpet and furniture. It would fade eventually, sometime after Mycroft gave birth and stopped producing the pheromones, but until then there would be months of lingering vanilla-spice warmth waiting for them in this room.

He fell asleep with his nose buried in Mycroft’s pillow.

At first he couldn’t define what woke him up, a sound, a sense, a feeling. Greg sat bolt upright in bed, eyes scanning the dark room for any difference in the blackness. One hand slid towards the bedside light.

“ **Leave it**.” Soft voice, but the command reverberated through him.

“You’re home.” Greg relaxed.

Mycroft strolled forward, removing his jacket and dropping it idly on the floor as he approached the bed. Even in the gloom his white shirt glowed subtly, a torso moving towards Greg with no legs or limbs.

“How did it go? Get what you needed?” He asked sleepily, reaching out a hand for Mycroft to take or leave as he chose.

“Naturally.”

There were the chinks of cufflinks hitting the dish on the dressing table Mycroft stored them in overnight. The pale shirt parted, buttons undone. The whisper of fabric suggested that Mycroft’s trousers were next.

“’s good to hear.” Greg murmured sleepily.

He stretched, feeling his pyjamas slide over the expensive sheets. It was the first night he’d been dressed in Mycroft’s bed. In sleep wear at least.

“’uppose it wouldn’t hve been too haard.” He slurred, yawn distorting half his words. “With her looking like that. Coulda assassinated the Queen and no one would have noticed with her lookin like that.”

“Indeed.”

The shirt moved closer and Greg could finally make out the faint expanse of Mycroft’s skin. One hand bushed Greg’s cheek and slowly ran around to cup the back of his head.

“You were certainly impressed.”

If Greg had been more awake he might have known to be on guard with that tone, that the polite level comment that had ‘Avoid! Treacherous Currents’ written in ornate capitals over the map. Here there be monsters.

“Course. She was stunning.” Greg replied sleepily.

He wasn’t expecting the hand behind his head to yank him upwards or the aggressive kiss that was more a mashing of lips and biting teeth. Pulled off balance, Greg had no choice but to windmill one arm around Mycroft’s shoulders, the other fully extended to provide some sort of balance point on the bed.

Slowly Greg’s mind stuttered into gear and he pushed back, forcing his tongue into Mycroft’s mouth and sucking bruises into his lips as Mycroft hissed and fought for ground. Their teeth clicked together and a coppery taste flooded Greg’s mouth as one or the other of them bit too hard on something, though for the life of him Greg couldn’t have said whether it was his blood or Mycroft’s being smeared ferociously around their mouths. Eventually, Greg tore his mouth away from Mycroft’s, ignoring the snarl that followed.

“You know she’s gorgeous. You knew that when you had her come here to pick you up.” Greg hissed into Mycroft’s ear. His fingers were digging into Mycroft’s shoulder leaving crescent moons where even his blunt nails had managed to dent the skin. Mycroft’s teeth latched onto his neck in retaliation. “You wanted me to see her, to know she looked amazing. Are you upset I looked?”

“ **Never again**.” Mycroft snarled, free arm tangling in the cord for Greg’s pyjama bottoms to pull it loose.

Greg pushed up onto one knee, the other leg slipping off the side of the bed so he could half-stand half kneel. He kicked the bottoms off as he went, leaving them flapping uselessly around one knee. Mycroft returned the favour, dragging Greg’s sleep shirt over his head and moving to attack one of the newly exposed nipples. After that it took significant amounts of concentration and will power for Greg to manage to remove Mycroft’s pants instead of collapsing into a heap of jelly.

“Were. You. Jealous?” He bit each word into Mycroft’s skin, peppering the cream expanse with nips and more serious bruises. “Were you upset I was looking at her?”

Greg gasped as Mycroft bit down savagely on his collar bone, his fingers dragging down his lover’s back as Greg arched into the sting of pain. From the bite Mycroft bestowed a few centimetres above the previous one, he didn’t mind the welts.

“Y-eee-s.” Greg exhaled the word and then nudged Mycroft upwards for another kiss. It stung as Mycroft sucked on his bruised, swollen lip.

A cool wet hand slipped between their bodies and Mycroft stroked Greg’s cock, a punishingly slow and gentle stroke, completely offset to the scratches and the bruises the rest of his body was inflicting. It made Greg want to thrust his hips to increase the pace, harder, faster, match the claims Mycroft was sucking all over his body with a claim of his own on Mycroft.

“ **Take me**.”

The hand withdrew and Mycroft straddled Greg’s hips, knees spread wide to accommodate Greg’s legs.

“Are you sure?” Greg’s mind was fuzzy, but he’d remember preparing Mycroft if it had been done.

“ **Now!** ” Mycroft snarled, pulling Greg up for a kiss as his body sank down.

There was resistance and it must have hurt, but between the lube slathered over Greg’s dick and the natural preparation from pregnancy, Greg slid smoothly, though slowly, in.

There would be bruises on his biceps from Mycroft’s grip as he struggled through the pain to take him.

“Is this what you want?” Greg moved to suck his own mark into Mycroft’s shoulder, far below the visible skin left by his suit shirts, as he withdrew and thrust again without giving Mycroft any time to adjust. “The burn of my cock, today, tomorrow, every time you move, every time you stand, every time you-”

His words were swallowed by Mycroft’s mouth, which descended again until Greg’s thrust brushed by his prostate and his lips left Greg’s with a gasp.

“ **Harder**.” He panted into Greg’s ear, fingernails dragging lightly up Greg’s sides.

Greg’s thrust was rewarded by the nails retracing their path, this time hard enough to sting.

“God, yes!” Greg shifted more of his weight to his foot resting on the floor to give him better leverage to thrust. “Want to feel you, going to make you burn.”

Mycroft moaned and sucked on Greg’s ear.

“Is that what you want, love? Want to feel me? Want me to take you, know I’m here taking you, no one else?”

“ **Again**! **”** Mycroft shuddered as Greg found the angle he’d been on earlier to stimulate Mycroft’s prostate with every thrust. His eyes fluttered closed with each drive and retreat, his neglected cock leaving a sticky trail as it dragged over Greg’s stomach.

Greg was getting close. He knew that, could feel it gathering and he wasn’t going to keep it back, not unless Mycroft ordered him too. Much more satisfying to flood his errant love with his seed, drive them both through ecstasy and hold him as they both came down.

“Is this what you want?” He growled, much abused muscles straining to pick up the pace.

Mycroft dropped his weight just as Greg thrust up, driving his prick even deeper.

“Yes.” He moaned. “Take me, Gregory.”

“Yes.” Greg pulled him close, holding their bodies tightly together as he moved, guiding Mycroft’s hips to help him find a rhythm that would push them further. “God, My, love you. Love you so much.”

Mycroft kissed and licked his way down Greg’s neck, stopping with a bitten off cry to pant in the crook of neck and shoulder as Greg hit his prostate straight on. His cock was trapped between them, every flex of Greg’s abdomen, every movement as he pistoned in and out of Mycroft’s body, dragging against the head, flooding him with sensation.

“Love you. All yours.”

“ **Say it**.” Mycroft growled, emphasising his command with teeth. His voice was breathless, shaky. He was getting close.

“Yours, only yours. Forever.” Greg panted. He couldn’t go much longer, didn’t want to. So close.

“ **Yes.** ” Mycroft’s muscles contracted as his orgasm rippled through him, dragging and massaging against Greg’s buried cock until with a bitten off shout that might have been Mycroft’s name, Greg joined him in white oblivion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you'd like to have a look at the dress and jewels:
> 
> http://melody-in-time.livejournal.com/13388.html


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back. Sorry about the longer than usual break between the chapters. This one brings us to what I like to think of as the end of Part 2 in my mental 3 part partition of this story. 
> 
> To those who instantly wondered how far and fast Mycroft was going to run, this one is for you.
> 
> No warnings that are particularly relevant.

Greg woke up alone, stuck to the bed sheet where last night’s mess had dried on his stomach. He wasn’t particularly surprised by this, though it would have been nice to wake up covered in Mycroft rather than just the semen they’d passed out in rather than cleaning up the night before. If his sleep clogged mind had managed a coherent thought other than ‘pants’ or ‘coffee’ before he made it to the kitchen, he probably would have expected Mycroft in his most ostentatious ‘I’m only a minor civil servant’ suit, briefly looking thoroughly alarmed by the fact Greg had woken up before he’d manage to sneak away to hide in his office, before good breeding and years of training wiped away the display.

“Ah, Gregory, you’re awake.” Mycroft patted his mouth with the corner of a napkin and stood. “I’m afraid I have to go into the office. There have been complications with my departure that require sorting.”

“I’m sure.” Greg muttered under his breath, leaning his forehead on the cupboard while the kettle did its magic.

“Yes, well…” Mycroft seemed unsure what to say, and after a beat, just left the room all together.

Greg moaned sleepily, a sound caught between a yawn and a sigh. The kettle clicked off and he stared at his tea cup as his brain caught up to the fact there was no coffee, only peppermint tea. He left it there, ambling back to the stairs. Peppermint tea was NOT coffee.

Mycroft passed him at the door, flexing his fingers in leather gloves as he settled them in place.

“When will you be back?” Greg asked, leaning against the banister, lazily scratching his exposed chest.

“That remains to be determined, I’m afraid.” Mycroft selected an umbrella, not looking in Greg’s direction. “There is a possibility certain aspects will need to be dealt with in person and necessitate my departure ahead of schedule.”

“Do your best. Let me know what you want for dinner. My turn to co-ok.” Greg yawned.

Mycroft nodded sharply and left, black car arriving at the kerb as his shoes touched the step. The door swung shut behind him and Greg weighed the advantages of going back to bed, more sleep and a glorious lack of thought for an hour or two, against a shower and trip to the coffee shop for a decadently large cup of the forbidden bean.

The coffee won, but only because Greg face planted on the bed and found no matter how hard he tried he couldn’t get back to sleep.

In the bathroom he stared into the mirror at the as the water warmed. His neck and shoulders were covered in a line of bright red blooms, a small cluster on his right with the distinctive imprint of teeth. A similar bite crested his left pec and a smattering of smaller love bites danced across his chest. Fingernails had raised welts from his lower back around to his sternum that stung as he stepped into the shower, thin bright red lines on his skin.

The size of Mycroft’s hand could be calculated from the bruises on his arms, each finger individually defined where he’d held onto Greg so tightly.

Not that last night had been about the pain. It didn’t always have to be about the sharp sting or cracking welt, pain to pleasure, pleasure to pain. Greg’s relationships had all involved the pain-pleasure edge because, as Mycroft had pointed out so long ago, he wasn’t strong enough to fake the Dominant pull without it.

Mycroft didn’t need the edge, didn’t need to fake the barely contained danger, but nonetheless their sessions had generally involved dancing along its ridge, some element of pain, some use of whip or restraint to send Greg all the way down beyond the surface rather than Mycroft’s sheer presence. With Mycroft the edge was a barrier between them, a shield from the overwhelming intimacy they’d be shrouded in without it.

Last night they’d almost broken through that flimsy wall, possessive passion doing what choreographed precision couldn’t as they took their pleasure in each other without Greg ever drifting below the surface into Sub-space, the kind of sex, the kind of submission, that was only ever part of a relationship, not a casual pairing. Mycroft hadn’t said it himself, but the demands he’d made of Greg were one bare step away from a claim.

Greg sighed and leant his forehead against the slick tiles, feeling the water drum down on tight shoulder muscles. He honestly didn’t know whether this made things better or worse in the long term. It helped him to know Mycroft felt so deeply about him, that Mycroft resented the thought of anyone so much as peaking Greg’s interest, that Mycroft cared and wanted him, especially after the bleak and depressing thought’s that had driven Greg to 221B the night before, but all those things would, had, sent Mycroft running scared and any discussion now would be starting with Greg on the back foot, trying to coax a fleeing wild animal to stand still long enough to allow him to identify the wound, let alone begin to try and heal years of accumulated infection.

He turned the water off and got out rather than stew in his own thoughts. Despite that, they followed him: to his bedroom to dress; to Mycroft’s room to change the sheets and make the bed; to the kitchen to grab an apple; out onto the pavement; down to the road. Mostly it was hope, the warm glow lodged in his chest that simultaneously melted and hardened the knot lodged next to it. If Mycroft reacted like that to a look, if he couldn’t bear to let him go, did that mean he would be willing to work things out, to try?

Once Greg coaxed him back, that was.

“Detective Inspector.” Tamara smiled up at him through her lashes. “Usual?”

“Uh, yeah, thanks.” Greg patted his pockets absently, suddenly unsure whether he’d remembered his wallet.

“-because of course, that’s the way it is, innit Inspector? An I wasn’t gonna put up with tha, so-”

Greg nodded automatically, fingers finally locating his wallet in his coat pocket.

“Ana told him, but no-”

Greg smiled politely, not quite sure who all the players were in this drama of hers, but not willing to be rude to such an excellent barista.

“Here you are.” Tamara chirped, handing him the large takeaway cup.

Greg smiled, and wondered over to the door, not quite sure what to do next, not having thought beyond getting the cup now in his hand. The weather was average, neither spectacularly good nor awfully bad, but Greg didn’t feel like walking circles around the park. Nor did he feel like going home, sitting and waiting for Mycroft to return like he didn’t have anything better to do, the stereotypical lost Sub, weak-willed and desperate.

There was the possibility of sitting here and staring out the window, maybe reading the newspapers the shop got in every morning, but Tamara was still glancing at him out of the corner of her eye while she wiped down the bench and there was no need to encourage her. So he headed for the Yard and buried himself in work, decidedly not checking his phone to see if Mycroft had texted.

Anthea texted at six to say Mycroft had embroiled himself in a very important political discussion and unfortunately could not be extricated, but she would make him eat.

Greg ordered takeaway and returned to puzzling over a detail in one of the crime scene photos that just didn’t seem to fit. When he finally stretched and looked at the clock it was pushing 10.

Mycroft’s room was dark when he arrived home and the door shut. Greg didn’t open it to see whether Mycroft had come home or was sleeping at the office.

He saw both Mycroft and Anthea after work Monday night: Mycroft on his way upstairs while Anthea texted rapidly in the entry way, her fingers clicking with impatience the way he could see her feet wanted to.

“Dinner meeting with the Ambassador. We’ll be leaving in ten.” She didn’t look up from her phone.

“Guess there really were some complications.” Greg hung up his jacket almost missing her “not until he made them” muttered under her breath.

“Are you going to need to leave early?” Greg asked neutrally, politely ignoring the comment he was not meant to have heard.

“I don’t know. Maybe.” She finally looked up from her phone and met his eyes.

Greg nodded, but Mycroft emerged in a suit that to Greg looked identical to the old one before he could say anything.

“Good luck.” He smiled as genuinely as he could.

Mycroft gave him a stiff nod and hurried out the door. Anthea waved and followed him.

Greg watched TV, beer in hand, trying to work out what to do.

He was shuffling papers on his desk, trying to find the requisition forms he _knew_ he’d signed the day before, when his office line rang. Continuing to search one handed he fumbled for the handset with the other.

“Detective Inspector Lestrade.”

“Inspector, it’s Susan Graylyn from St Mary’s Hospital.”

Greg felt his chest reflexively clench, the way it did every time, an automatic response to the knowledge his nearest and dearest ended up in hospitals in various states of almost dead on a fairly regular basis.

“You asked to be notified if Peter Carson woke up.” The nurse on the other end of the phone cheerfully continued.

“Yes, yes.” Greg grabbed a pen, heart shuddering in his chest. “Has he woken up? Does he remember anything?”

“We’re not certain as of yet. He’s been showing signs of stirring for a week or so now, and he opened his eyes earlier, but he went straight back to sleep.”

“Any idea when he’ll be able to talk?” Greg hoped it was soon. Something else to think about.

“Depending on his progress tomorrow, it could be as soon as early next week. He may not wake again so soon,” she cautioned, “but if he does, he should continue to improve.”

“Thank you. If you’d keep me updated on his progress…?”

“Of course, Inspector.”

Greg said good bye and hung up the phone with a sigh. He gave in to the urge to flip over his mobile and look at its face. Still blank, still no texts.

He resisted the urge to hang his head in his hands. In his office or not, his office was a fishbowl and everyone and their dog could see in to his personal problems. Instead he forced himself to go back to trying to find the form. There was no point trying to second guess himself. He might not be doing the right thing, but it was the only way Mycroft might deign to talk to him before fleeing the country, so shit as it felt, it was the best way.

Or it would be, if Mycroft would at least talk to him before he left.

He was honestly surprised to find Mycroft at home when he arrived there. The Dom was in the kitchen, sitting at the table as something that smelt amazing cooked in the oven, flipping through files.

“Uh, hi?” Greg didn’t bother to hide the shock.

Mycroft shut the file and returned it to the briefcase next to him, the top secret stamp briefly flashing before Greg’s eyes before it was out of sight.

“Good evening.” Mycroft stood and checked the casserole.

“I wasn’t expecting you home.” Greg stayed where he was, uncertainly watching Mycroft move around the kitchen.

“Things are as sorted as they can be without interacting in person.” The sentence rolled off Mycroft’s tongue in such a smooth manner, Greg suspected it had been delivered to Mycroft by Anthea and he was merely repeating what he’d been told.

Greg sat at the table and let Mycroft fuss with plates and cutlery.

“So when are you leaving?” He asked quietly.

“Tomorrow afternoon.” Mycroft replied. “I’ll go straight from the office.”

Greg nodded, in acknowledgement not acceptance. This would be it then, the last night he had with Mycroft for months. Quite possibly the last night he would spend in Mycroft’s bed, given he hadn’t brought up the topic with Mycroft and they hadn’t sorted what would be happening after his return.

He wished he’d checked whether Mycroft had been home, so he could curl up in his presence, even if he was already asleep.

They didn’t say anything until Mycroft sat down, placing Greg’s dinner in front of him. Even then the silence lingered until they’d both reached the point of pushing food around their plates rather than eating.

“How do I contact you while you’re away?” Greg put his fork down, knowing he wouldn’t be able to eat any more no matter how long he poked at it. “Still have your phone?”

“To a limited extent at first, yes.” Mycroft took a bite. It took him a long time to chew and swallow.

“And after that?”

Mycroft looked up, eyes skimming over Greg’s solemn face. “I can have Anthea arrange a secure email address for you.”

“Thank you.” Greg met and held his gaze.

Mycroft looked away first, long fingers fiddling with the knife and fork in his hands. He looked uncertain, as though he didn’t know what to do or say. On someone as confident as Mycroft Holmes, it was not a good look.

Last night.

“Are you finished with that?” Greg’s voice was firm.

“I suspect so.” Mycroft sighed, pushing his plate to the side.

He started to stand, but Greg got there first, hand planted firmly on Mycroft’s chest keeping him in his seat.

“Gregor-” Mycroft’s voice cut off with a strangled gasp as Greg straddled his lap. “What are you-?”

“You’re leaving tomorrow. We won’t see each other for months.” Greg daringly ran his hands up the sleeves of Mycroft’s shirt, cupping his face in his hands. “We can spend the night not talking because you’re in a snit, we can spend it talking, which I think we both know isn’t going to happen, or we can spend it in bed memorising each other’s bodies with every breath. Up to you.”

He leant over, lips hovering just above Mycroft’s.

“Well, in that case.” Mycroft pulled Greg down and met him for a surprisingly gently kiss. “ **Bed**.”


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ack, I am so sorry. It was a public holiday on Monday, and yesterday just felt like a Tuesday so I completely spaced on the whole "Wednesday update" thing. Here it is, only a day late. Sorry.
> 
> No particular chapter warnings

_Sent: Sun 8/5/11 8:32 pm_

_To: Mycroft Holmes <diklr_3496@whitehall.gov.uk>_

_Subject: Hi_

_Mycroft,_

_Well this arrived at home today, presumably from Anthea. I’ve never had to sign the Official Secrets Act to receive a parcel before, but I’ve never had a package delivered by the secret service before either. Christ, that agent’s neck was as thick as my forearms together and then some!_

_Anyway, just checking this is the right email etc. It was the only one in the contacts so I assume it’s you. If not and I’m emailing some big spook or politician or someone, sorry, please ignore this email._

_Greg_

Monday morning, Monday day, was more of the relentless slog through paperwork. He officially closed down the investigation into the missing Dom now they’d found enough evidence to substantiate her Sub’s claim of self-defence. If they ever managed to find her body things could be taken further, but until then she was missing presumed dead.

The murder investigation into the ‘extra’ body he turned over to Sally, giving her full control. She was good enough to make DI, even DCI one day, and he intended to give her every opportunity to prove it.

Ignoring his other open case files, Greg spent the afternoon cleaning his desk and doing paperwork, as the reminder he had worked out how to set up while on desk duty demanded. It was tedious, but the last thing Greg needed was to give Packenham and Mulgrave any excuse to look sideways at him with their current attitudes. If that meant keeping a stack of form PCF42 in his desk drawer to make sure they got done, then that’s what had to happen.

Most of his case work was desk work anyway at the moment. Other than the investigation he’d handed over to Sally, they were all a matter of collecting and consolidating evidence for court or the administrative protocols to shuffle it off to storage. The hospital had confirmed that Peter was continuing to recover and Greg was tentatively scheduled to see him Friday morning.

The only other case was the still unidentified body in the warehouse. Greg was mostly keeping that one out of pride. He was back 10 years in the records and there still wasn’t a good match for their corpse, but after having kicked Sherlock off the case he had a fierce need to solve it. Ridiculous as it was, he felt he owed it to the victim, having deprived him of his best chance of justice.

Sally waved good bye through the glass and gave him a scolding look. In his defence Greg held up the timesheets he was sorting through for approvals and the lecture stopped before it began.

Unfortunately as much as he hated book keeping it had to be done and Greg had long ago made it harder for himself by keeping two sets of records: one of the hours officers officially claimed and one for the hours they actually worked. That way when costs were getting tight he could approve overtime, he hoped, more judiciously. He’d prefer to approve all of it on the philosophy that if his officers were working they should be paid, but upstairs never agreed and it wasn’t something he could change, especially not at the minute.

Of course the budget was getting tight again, leaving him growling over the figures ominously. If he’d been more inclined to expressive throes of anger, he would have shredded them.

A light knock on the door startled him out of his funk.

“Sir?” Weatherly stood uncertainly in his doorway.

“Yes, uh…” He honestly couldn’t think why she’d be there.

“You left this in the printer tray, sir.”

She walked in and handed him a loose collection of papers. Her hand was trembling slightly, just noticeable because it shook the pages in her grip. Looking up at her face, Greg could see the dark circles under her eyes where her concealer had worn off over the day. Her eyes looked slightly swollen and red, possibly from tiredness, more probably from crying. She still sported a red nose and a slightly glassy gaze that suggested unshed tears.

“Thanks.” He took the papers, trying to decide between tactful blindness and chivalrous concern.

Free of the papers her hands returned carefully to her side, her posture so deliberate it was brittle.

“How have you been?” Greg asked, working on the theory Weatherly could say something if she wanted to or not.

“Fine, fine, sir, just-” A choked off sob strangled the words in her throat, her hand flying to cover the bridge of her nose.

“Hey, hey, sit down.” Greg stood and guided her towards the chair.

“No, no, I’m fine. Really, I’m f-fine.” She didn’t resist physically, folding in on herself in the chair.

Greg handed her a tissue and tried hard not to hover.

“Are some of the officers giving you a hard time?” He asked gently, remembering how Sally had stuck near him at the meeting. It would be easy to believe Weatherly was getting hazed.

“N-n-o-o.” She stammered, tears now rolling down her face. “W-well yes, b-but nothing I can’t h-h-handle. It’s not-t…”

Her voice broke completely at the last word leaving her shaking with tears flooding the tissue. Greg held out another one, and when she failed to take it carefully, but firmly opened her fingers to slip it into her hand.

“Sh, it’ll be okay, uh…” Greg altered, realising he didn’t actually know the constable’s Christian name.

“L-Lisa.” She managed, throat working furiously around the syllables.

“Lisa.” Greg repeated calmly. “It’ll be fine, Lisa.”

He was glad she’d waited until everyone had left for the night to break down. From the look of her she’d been struggling for some time on the verge, probably locking herself in the bathroom several times to cope. He tried to tamp down the panicked him who had no idea what to do with a crying female Sub and the angry him who was pissed off she was crying in his office. As if he needed more attention from management right now. Why couldn’t she have gone to one of her friends, or Whiting if she absolutely had to break down at work?

Pushing it aside, he gamely patted her back and made soothing noises.

“I can lean on the officers a bit, if they’re getting to you.” He told her gently. “Get some boring tasks for them out of the office. They don’t need to know.”

“It’s not, it’s not,” her throat and mouth stood out in the shape of a silent scream until the pressure in her chest forced a reflexive breath. “I’m p-pregnant.”

Greg was very proud in retrospect that his hand didn’t falter in its soothing circles.

“Congratulations?” He offered feebly.

Her sobs became wrenching gasps as each breath stuck in her throat. Greg supported her as her trembling threatened to vibrate her off the chair. His own heart was thudding painfully in his chest, so he couldn’t imagine how she felt.

It occurred to him that Mycroft could.

It also occurred to him he really didn’t want the answer to his next question.

“Lisa, Lisa, look at me. That’s it.” He used another tissue to gently wipe her face. “Lisa, the Sire-”

She burst out in a fresh wave of tears.

“Is it who I think it is?” Greg continued with enforced calm.

She nodded, head buried in her hands.

Sally’s face, make up just a little more strikingly applied, text messages responded to, the gentle half-smile when she drifted off in thought, swum before Greg’s eyes. Anderson keeping his respectful distance, keeping the conversation at an appropriate level, not wearing his wedding ring or bracelet.

Shit.

“Have you told him?”

If Anderson knew and was still… consequences or not they were going to have words.

Weatherly shook her head. If she pressed the heels of her palms against her eyes any harder she was in danger of squashing her eyes.

“I don’t know what to s-say.” She managed. “I don’t know what to do!”

Her voice spiralled up to a note of despair that had Greg wincing internally.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay. It’s not the end of the world.” He soothed.

“How is it not?” She wailed.

“Everything can always be dealt with.” Greg lied reassuring, well aware that objectively the truth was probably closer to her version of things than his.

At 24 with less than six months in her current position, she was pregnant with a married Alpha’s child after a one night stand having already been publically reprimanded for accidently getting involved in the less than professional feud between him and his acknowledged lover. End of the world might be an exaggeration, but things were not going to be easy for her.

“Have you thought about what you’re going to do?”

“I don’t know, I just don’t…” The tears welled up again.

“It’s okay. It’s going to be okay.” Greg awkwardly patted her hair as she collapsed into him, tears hot against his neck.

“What do I do?” She asked some time later, tears finally dried up for now.

“You need to think about what you want, and then you need to talk to Anderson.”

The tissue box was empty, so Greg rooted around in his pocket until he found a handkerchief.

“Do I have to tell him?” She whispered, voice raspy and clogged from crying. “Can’t I just-”

“No!”

Greg realised he may have been a little forceful when she shrank away from him, handkerchief clutched in one hand.

“Sorry.” He dropped to one knee, realising he’d somehow ended up upright without knowing. “If that’s what you decide, that’s fine, but you have to tell him. You can’t make this choice alone. It’s not fair on either of you.”

“But-”

“No.” He repeated. “It’s unfair for you to have to bear the responsibility for this decision alone, and unfair for him not to have a say.”

Okay, he was projecting his own issues a little, but the black grief when he thought the chance had been taken from him, that he had no say in what happened and the idea he might have never met his son because no one was there to talk Mycroft into even considering the alternative was indelibly etched onto his soul.

Something must have shown on his face because Weatherly reached out a trembling hand to touch his fingers clasped on the back of the chair.

“Is… did…. Did someone?” She asked, her voice small.

“No. No, nothing like that.” Greg pushed to a standing and walked back behind his desk.

There might be some older coppers like Gregson who’d remember if pressed what had happened with his first child, but even they didn’t know any details, just that the baby had never arrived and Greg never mentioned it. He wasn’t about to share that with Lisa Weatherly and no one knew about Mycroft.

“Take tomorrow off, Weatherly. Work out what you want going forward. You can work out the mechanics of how to make it work later, but you need to know what you want.”

She nodded and hesitantly stood. “Yes, sir.”

Greg waved off the hanky and she left, ducking shyly between the rows of desk as though afraid there was anyone to see.

He let out a long slow breath.

Shit.

_Mon 19/5/11 9:37pm_

_To: Mycroft Holmes <diklr_3496@whitehall.gov.uk>_

_Subject:_

_Hi,_

_Christ, I’m tired. I’m assuming you’re busy cause you haven’t replied. Things are shit, in case you’re wondering. Well, they aren’t yet, but they’re about to be._

_Remember I told you about that constable Anderson slept with to get back at Sally? Well, I had the pleasure of finding out tonight that she’s pregnant when she broke down in my office. Poor kid, she’s only young. No clue what she was getting into. Absolutely distraught._

_I dunno, My. I should feel sorry for her, and I do, really, but I just felt so angry. Why me? She’s caused so much trouble lately, the whole department is on notice, and she comes and breaks down in my office? I’m the one who’s going to get my arse handed to me by Packenham and Mulgrave when this gets out. Thank God she waited until everyone had left or I’d probably be suspended already._

_I know it’s unfair of me. The whole mess isn’t even her fault, it’s bloody Anderson and Sally, and she’s now stuck between a rock and a hard place like the rest of us, but why’d she have to come to me? Whiting’s not officially her DI, but she works with him the most, why couldn’t she go to him, or better yet, a friend? Surely she has legions of female friends to get weepy with._

_Can’t wait for Sally to find out. That’s going to be such fun!_

_Sorry, I’m whining. It’s just so frustrating. I spent the whole day doing fucking paperwork trying to keep my head above water so they don’t have any extra reason to look my way, and now this. If you come home and find I’m unemployed, this is why._

_Forcing myself away from the depressingness to try and end on a higher note, there’s a lull in criminal activity, good for me and London, bad for your brother. Looks like Dimmock has a new Dom, oh and I ran into Molly who has apparently got a new kitten._

_Greg_

Sleep that night didn’t come easily. Initial burst of anger, frustration and fear out of the way, Greg was instead inundated with guilt, worry and loneliness. No matter how many times he flipped his pillow and forced himself to start over counting sheep, his mind inevitably wondered back to Sally and how she was going to handle this latest twist in her ever turbulent relationship just when it seemed it was getting back on track. He thought about Lisa Weatherly and how terrified she must be, about Carrie Anderson, who had been losing her husband and Dom for years.

He didn’t even know if she knew.

He brooded about his loneliness, the difference in the house when Mycroft wasn’t home and wouldn’t be coming home, and how much it frustrated him to have his emotions yanked all over the place by the mere presence or not of the Omega Dom. He was a Sub, but he wasn’t weak, no matter how he seemed to act lately, and his own behaviour riled him.

Somewhere among all the thinking, worrying and brooding, Greg did eventually fall asleep, something he only became aware of when his alarm woke him the next morning.

Weatherly didn’t come in, taking the day as Greg had advised. He was glad, not having expected the strength of the guilt that had reared its head every time he saw Sally or Anderson and didn’t say anything. It was even worse mid-afternoon when he accidently walked in on them in the break room holding mugs of tea and talking in soft voices, fingers linked on their spare hand.

Once he’d unintentionally barged in the only thing that would have made the situation more awkward than continuing to make his cup of tea would have been running out, so Greg forced himself to smile pleasantly and fetch down a tea bag as they all tried to ignore that he’d interrupted a _moment_ and make small talk about the shipping forecast.

After that the guilt was crippling, and he buried himself in chasing down the receipts needed to link various purchases together as proof for one of his cases. He almost ran out the door at five so as not to have to spend a moment longer avoiding looking guiltily at Sally.

He didn’t let himself email Mycroft. If Mycroft hadn’t emailed back yet, then Greg would not email him. He was not desperate. He was not clingy.

He spent the evening watching TV, composing emails to Mycroft in his head and wondering how to bring up the Conversation, capital and all, that still hung between them.

Weatherly was back in the office the next day. To Greg’s relief she avoided him, which made it much less obvious that he was avoiding her.

Greg set a familial DNA search in motion on the victim from the warehouse and continued to comb through missing persons, spending the day down in the records. Needless to say, no one came looking for him there and he was able to escape on time.

_Wed 1/5/11 4:30 am_

_To: Gregory Lestrade <_uhbve_3483@secure.co.uk>

_Subject: Re_

_Gregory,_

_I have received your emails and am disheartened to hear how events have progressed. The young constable seems unfairly treated by fate for what was undoubtedly naivety, but at least she has a comforting presence at the Yard. Despite your anger, I have no doubt that you treated her situation with the utmost delicacy and tact. You have always had a weakness for downtrodden strays, though I sincerely doubt she will prove either a more profitable or more irritating investment than your efforts with Sherlock._

_My condolences to Sergeant Donovan for the hurt she will undoubtedly suffer as a result of these actions, though I cannot help but feel it is for the best long term. She most certainly deserves better than Anderson, and this may be the final impetus required to move on._

_Mycroft_

_Wed 14/5/11 6:00 pm_

_To: Mycroft Holmes <_diklr_3496@whitehall.gov.uk _>_

_Subject: So you are alive!_

_My,_

_No explosions yet, though I’m not entirely sure what will happen tomorrow. Weatherly was back at work today, but don’t know what she has or hasn’t said yet. Hopefully she does something soon, cause I can’t not tell Sally and Anderson much longer._

_They were kissing today. Nothing serious, just on the cheek, but it’s not the kinda thing that makes me feel less bad right now._

_Spent most of the day in the archives, so I missed it myself, but apparently Dimmock really does have a Dom and it’s the current big scandal. The rumour mill insists that in a fifteen minute period he went from not having any marks on his neck to sporting a giant red hickey, so his Dom’s another Yarder. At least he’s a DI, so management can’t get shirty at me for his in-house relations and any fallout._

_I know you can’t say anything about the conference, but hope all is going well._

_Greg_

Sally was already at her desk when Greg arrived Thursday morning. She didn’t respond to his greeting, but from the way she was studying the screen Greg wrote it off as not having heard him. She hadn’t come to him for help yet, so he presumed the investigation was going well.

Midmorning Greg was interrupted in his slog through court preparation by a stack of folders landing on the edge of his desk. Pretending his heart wasn’t racing at 100 miles an hour he looked up at Sally’s solemn face.

“Write ups for our floater, statements for Carson’s trial.”

“Right.” Greg pulled the files closer, shuffling her report for Carson off to the other side. He had needed her official statement for his court write up, but hadn’t been going to bother asking for it until after he’d spoken to Peter on Friday given her on going cases. “Thanks.”

Sally nodded and left, walking quickly and deliberately in a way that made Greg feel like a shabby out of shape moggy next to an irate panther.

He turned back to his work, but kept half an eye on the bullpen, watching Sally power through folders with a single minded determination. Several times she came back in leaving completed forms on his desk or handing back hard copies of reports she’d borrowed. Each time she was concise, brusque and to the point.

A group of sergeants were heading out for lunch, but Sally waved away their invitations claiming work and they left in a noisy group without her. Ten minutes later Sally also packed up her things and left her desk, Greg frowning after her.

With a sigh he let it go, slogging through the process of collecting, rationalising and consolidating the evidence to support the instinctual links they’d made before a jury. At least this wasn’t a case Sherlock had helped with so he didn’t have to try and justify any of those great jumps in logic to anyone. He’d made enough progress to hand everything over to the prosecutors tomorrow when his stomach started to complain loudly enough to break through his concentration. Fumbling in his drawer failed to produce any snacks, let alone lunch, and Greg packed up, resigned to going out and getting something.

The clouds that had threatened rain only that morning had unbelievably cleared and shown that the weather forecasters could occasionally be correct. With the clouds gone the sun seemed determined to reclaim spring as its own and Greg actually took off his suit jacket and rolled up his sleeves, treating himself to a walk as he headed to some of the eateries further away on the other side of St James’s Park.

There were a few others taking advantage of the sunshine during lunch and a few children, infants really, too young for school, ran around giggling and shrieking in loud, jubilant voices. One of them chased after a big purple ball on wobbly legs, bemused parents watching the attempt at speed.

Greg was halfway across the park before he noticed Sally Donovan sitting on one of the more hidden benches, body uncomfortably stiff even from a distance. It didn’t take much to alter his path to end up next to her, or near enough to, and he sat down with a thud, slinging his jacket over the arm of the bench.

They sat in silence, Greg watching the trees rustling in the breeze; Sally staring off into space at who knows what.

“Thought you weren’t going out to lunch.” Greg remarked eventually, watching the purple ball tumble across the grass and the laughing child fall after it.

“Changed my mind.” Sally replied shortly.

Greg nodded and let the silence drag out another few beats before speaking again.

“Reason you changed your mind have anything to do with why you’re sitting here so stiffly or why you’ve been powering through work like you’re trying to ignore the world?”

Sally didn’t reply, still staring out into the middle distance.

“Are you okay?” Greg asked quietly.

“I’m fine, Sir.”

“Sally, I’m not asking as your boss.”

Her posture slumped slightly, neck bowing so her far off focal point was somewhat closer to the ground.

“You’d think I’d be used to it by now, that it wouldn’t hurt.” She said quietly. “But it still does.”

Greg nodded understandingly. He didn’t say he was sorry to hear that or offer her any sympathy that would be misconstrued as pity.

“Normally we both know we’ll come back. We say it’s the last time, last chance, but inside we know it’s not. It hurts, but we, I, it’s never over. It’s worse this time.” She whispered, and lapsed into silence.

The wind rustled the leaves overhead and blew the noise of people, cars and city life their way.

“It’s so stupid, but I really thought this time…” She looked up at the trees eyes shining with what Greg suspected were unshed tears. “He wasn’t wearing his ring anymore – his choice, not my demand. _He_ came to _me_ and offered that. Took it off, took off his bracelet. He brought s-severance papers with him. Said he’d finally realised how important we were, that he was ready to finally commit, get his head out of his arse, everything. Instead it’s over, actually over.”

“You don’t know that.” Greg said quietly.

“Yes, I do.” Her fingers twisted together in her lap. “I love him, but he has other responsibilities now and he can’t have both. He slept with her, he’s got to step up to the hard part as well and take care of her and the b-bab – I can’t be with him, through - I can’t live like that.”

Greg looked away so she could pretend he hadn’t seen the tear that threatened to break free before she wiped it away.

“You’re not surprised.” Sally finally turned to look at him, voice brisk and efficient despite sounding slightly clogged.

“Weatherly broke down in my office Monday night.” He confessed. “Should have been more sympathetic, but to be honest I spent the whole time thinking why me, why’d you have to tell me.”

Sally nodded and looked away. “I thought you were strangely uncomfortable whenever you saw me… thought it was just the new decree from higher up.”

They sat there quietly, letting the breeze running through the trees throw shadows over their faces.

“What did she.” Sally bit her lip and stopped. “Phillip said he didn’t-”

“I don’t know when she told Anderson,” Greg said gently, “but she hadn’t told him on Monday.”

“That’s…good, that’s good.”

Her hands twisted again and Greg noticed the heavy ring, sun catching the edge between her fingers and reflecting back into his eyes.

“He left it with me.” Seeing where Greg was looking Sally held it flat on her palm, letting the sun pick out all the scratches and imperfections where the metal wasn’t as lustrous. “Said he wanted me to keep it, proof he had been finally going to do right by us. How pathetic is that: leaves his wife for another woman and I get to keep his wedding ring.”

“From the sound of it, it could be you, if you wanted it.” Greg remarked casually.

Sally shook her head and let her fingers curl closed.

“No, no it couldn’t. My mam always told me the hardest lesson to learn as a parent is that your children have to come first, no matter what you want. She used to repeat that every time I had a new partner, even though they weren’t Alphas, her way of saying have fun, but don’t get too deep before you’re done being selfish.”

She turned to look at him. “What am I supposed to do, move in with him and her? She needs him until the baby’s born. She can’t afford a baby on her own. Or do I stay at mine, knowing my partner is living with the Sub he knocked up? And even if she moves out after, Phillip’s going to have to look after his kid, have responsibilities, be around _it_ and _her_. Who am I, its father’s long term mistress? Maybe some other woman could be that strong, but I’m not. I can’t be around that… thing and her.

“No,” She swallowed and looked back down at her hands, hiding the ring between them, “whether it’s what we wanted or not there’s no space for me in his life anymore. It’s all filled with diapers and childcare schedules.”

“He might not be that involved.” Greg tried philosophically, though in reality he agreed with her. He didn’t think he was strong enough to raise his partner’s love child either, if it were him.

“I know a lot of people think badly of him, of us, but if he abandons his child like that, he’s not the Alpha I love anyway. Either way there’s nothing left for us.” Sally whispered, voice barely audible above the ambient noises. “And I can’t, I can’t watch, see that kid, knowing… even if we stayed together it’s a constant reminder stopping us moving on from one fucking screw up.”

“Are you going to be okay?”

“Have to be else we’re all in the shit aren’t we?” Sally offered him a watery smile. “I think Mulgrave would fall to his knees and praise God if I broke down and he could kick our arses.”

“Probably,” Greg agreed, “but you can take some time or-”

“No, that’s worse. At work at least I don’t have to think. I’ll be fine, I just had to get out, get some space. I suppose I’ll have a lot of that now…” She trailed off.

“If you need, no, listen to me Sally, if you need anything, just let me know, okay?” Greg placed a hand on her shoulder.

“I’ll be fine, Greg, really. It’s for the best, right?” She squeezed his hand and let go.

“I’m sorry to say, but it is.” Greg agreed, dropping his hand to the bend and using it to lever his weight to his feet. “Now, come on Sergeant. If you’re out here you can get coffees while I get sandwiches. Probably best we’re back inside before our esteemed superiors do some investigative work of their own and use their ruddy eyes to look out the window.”

Sally laughed, bitterly, but laughed and took Greg’s offered hand to pull herself up. Fingering the ring one more time she tucked it into her pocket and rolled her shoulder’s back.

Greg wasn’t blind to the fact Sally Donovan was rash and let anger and frustration rule her head on occasion, but you couldn’t deny that she kept other emotions firmly in check, especially when she thought they were a weakness.

“Usual?” She asked.

“Sounds good Ham?”

“Chicken. See you in ten.”

_Thurs 12/5/11 6:32 pm_

_To: Mycroft Holmes <_diklr_3496@whitehall.gov.uk _>_

_Subject:_

_My,_

_Well, it’s out now. Anderson told Sally yesterday and it’s over for good. Git gave her his wedding ring, can you believe that? Not what I’d call the ideal break up gift, innit?_

_News hasn’t broken at the Yard yet, but I imagine when it does there’ll be hell to pay. Hopefully there’s some time before it comes out so they can all adjust, Poor Sally. Apparently Anderson’d been about to make right, the pillock._

_Poor ex-Mrs Anderson! No idea whether the severance papers are still going to be submitted, but if he doesn’t file I’m pretty sure Carrie will. She’s put up with a lot from him, even if she didn’t know about Sally and I doubt she’ll stand by him with this._

_It was hard, listening to Sally, mainly cause a few things she said hit home. God knows I think she’s better off without him, but you can’t just say that to someone. She as good as said it was because she couldn’t live with the baby and Weatherly in their lives, and wouldn’t let him choose otherwise. Mostly, it was the way she said it, “who am I, its father’s mistress?” Something like that._

_Who am I to our kid, My? We’ve been avoiding this conversation for too long. I know what you said previously, but really? When you’re not pushing me away? We know I’m his Sire. What about him?_

_I want him to know. Not straight away, but I don’t want to hide it from him. I don’t want to be just ‘that strange broke guy who lives with us’. He’s my son. I ~~want~~ will be involved in his life. From the start._

_I’m vetoing Abernathy, My. Hell, I’d rather call him Mycroft. I’d happily name him that, but_ we _choose, My._

_Sorry it’s so preachy. Spent a lot of the day with what exactly were parental responsibilities running around in my head thanks to this mess and I’m sorry, but I just can’t let it go anymore._

_Greg_


	32. Chapter 32

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahoy mateys.
> 
> Do pay attention to the warnings this chapter. We're back to the hospital to talk to Peter now that he's woken up so expect descriptions of sexual abuse of a minor, manipulation, victim blaming, incest, and anything else that you can probably imagine Michael Carson doing.

Friday dawned one of those days where the world felt like it was _almost_ going to do you in, but was toying with you for fun. Fun where the world was a cat and you were a terrified mouse making breaks for freedom, thinking you’d got away before it reeled you back in.

After tossing and turning well into the night, debating the wisdom of sending the email he had, Greg had eventually slept. It hadn’t been restful, his dreams stressful though unmemorable as his mind cycled over and over, processing his worries. By the time he managed to properly slip into a REM cycle he was tired enough to sleep through his blaring alarm, waking up to the sudden silence when it suddenly gave up and shut off.

Luckily oversleeping didn’t pose too much of a problem, just an abridged morning run and coffee (reintroduced when Mycroft had left) from home instead of the shop. That, he’d smiled happily, left him time to check his email: the cat letting the mouse make a dash for it before raking it back in, claws extended.

_Thursday 12/5/11 11:46 pm_

_To: Gregory Lestrade <_uhbve_3483@secure.co.uk _>_

_Subject: Re:_

_Gregory,_

_The matter is not and will not be up for discussion._

_I’m glad to hear Sally Donovan is coping well. She is a practical and talented officer and will do much better without such a negative influence in her life._

_Mycroft P. Holmes_

_____________________________________________________________________

Greg sat back with a sigh. He hadn’t expected Mycroft to embrace his comments with open arms, but he couldn’t help feeling disappointed nonetheless.

__________________________________________________________________

_Friday 13/5/11 7:11 am_

_To: Mycroft Holmes <_diklr_3496@whitehall.gov.uk _>_

_Subject: Re: Re:_

_Morning,_

_Look, I know that your family has some fairly strict traditions when it comes to this kind of thing, and that things are maybe slightly less clear than they would be otherwise, but this is us and_ our _family and_ our _lives._

_I’m not arguing that we have to be totally outrageous and name the kid Tom, but surely there’s a middle ground. Any relatives you liked as a kid? What were their names? What about Bertram? Not my fave, but I’ve seen enough Jeeves and Wooster to be happy with it. Winston? Could do worse than a famous PM I guess. Reginald? Harrington? Harrington Holmes sounds a bit like an amusement park or an old age home to me, but I’m certainly happy to consider it._

_Just ideas, My. What did you_ want _to call him as opposed to what you were told?_

_Greg_

Replying took longer than Greg had anticipated and he arrived out of breath at the platform watching the packed tube train leave the station. Waiting for the next one meant cooling his heels and cursing every second, though arriving late did mean Sally already had the car ready to go.

The hospital was bustling with people arriving for appointments or family to collect patients due to be discharged. This early in the day the only people visiting were carrying gifts in pink or blue proclaiming the new baby’s primary gender or were arriving with children too young to be in school. Greg could easily imagine the much larger crowds on Saturday morning as family and friends flocked to visit in patients on their day off.

Peter Carson was not located in the room Greg had originally given Daniel. By, Greg assumed, the grace of his boyfriend’s bank account Peter was now in a nice private room and undoubtedly was receiving the best of care.

Knocking lightly on the door, Greg strolled straight in. Peter Carson was sitting up in bed dressed in what appeared to be his own top, a popular alternative band’s logo scrawled across the front, though for the life of him Greg couldn’t have said which one. Unsurprisingly, Daniel Hill was sat in the faux comfortable hospital chair next to him, casually attired in jeans and a polo shirt that probably cost more than Greg’s suit. Peter looked confused, but Daniel rose straight to his feet and held out his hand to greet them.

“Detective Inspector, Sergeant.” He shook hands warmly before moving back to Peter’s bedside, surrendering the chair to prop on his Sub’s bedside.

“Peter Carson, we haven’t met.” Greg didn’t offer to shake Peter’s hand. Given the way Daniel had moved himself as close as possible, it was better to stay back. “I’m Detective Inspector Lestrade, this is Detective Sergeant Donovan. We’re the officers who have been looking into your case.”

“Daniel told me. Nice to meet you.”

Peter’s voice was a rich tenor, a little on the breathy side and just slightly slurred as though his mouth and tongue weren’t quite co-operating with his brain as he was used to. There was also a slight tremor in his limbs, though they moved fluidly enough when he shifted.

“How are you feeling?” Greg asked, assuming the offered chair.

“Better, but that’s not hard.” Peter forced out a watery smile. “I understand you’ve arrested my uncle?”

Greg didn’t miss the way he leant slightly into Daniel.

“Yes, and because of the real possibility of further harm to you or Daniel the magistrate has denied bail and remanded him in custody. He’ll go straight back until after his trial. You don’t need to worry about him anymore.”

“And you’re sure he’s going to be convicted?” Daniel looped his arm around Peter’s shoulders and physically shifted him closer.

“We have him at the scene of the murder, we have motive, proof he has no alibi for either occasion and a fully taped confession. I think it’s extremely unlikely Michael Carson will walk free on any counts.” Greg assured them both.

Peter nodded, looking down at his hands. Greg wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but it was more along the lines of relief than unhappy resignation.

“Peter,” Greg leant forward, trying to meet the young Omega’s eyes, “I’ve asked the prosecution to avoid calling you as a witness if possible, but we will need to take a statement and you may be required to sign an affidavit. It’s highly unlikely your Uncle’s attorney will want you on the stand given how damaging for his case your testimony could be, but as you’re a key witness it’s impossible to rule out completely.”

Peter nodded again, still not looking up at Greg.

“Can you tell me what happened at the club that night?” Greg flipped open his notebook.

“It was just, we went out. Wasn’t anything special or unusual, just a night out.” Peter fidgeted on the bed, causing Daniel to start tracing soothing circles on his arm.

“What happened at the club?” Greg prompted.

“Ryan picked up these two chicks, ended up getting both of their numbers in front of each other. Michelle drank a bit too much and thought she could dance much better than she can, as always. Usual stuff.”

“And this Alpha?” Greg held out Robinson’s photo.

Peter took it and stared with tired, dead eyes. “I wouldn’t even have remembered him if not for…”

“If he hadn’t ended up dead?” Greg prompted when Peter failed to finish.

“Yeah.” Peter handed the photo back.

“What did he say to you?” Greg asked, slipping the photo back into his file.

Peter hesitated and said nothing.

“Peter, we know you’re an Omega,” Greg said gently, “and that you’re on experimental suppressants being developed for the military. The hospital has already confirmed it, as has your uncle in his confession.”

Peter shrank back against Daniel, shaking visibly.

“We know,” Greg continued, “that Michael Carson had… plans… for the future and that to at least some extent he was making you sub for him.”

The reaction as Peter flinched away from Daniel, eyes flying to the young Dom’s face in panic, was painful to watch. Greg’s estimation of Daniel Hill, already raised by his loyalty to Peter and his calm acceptance of Greg’s presence close to and distressing his on edge Sub, rose further when he let no sign of distress, disgust or anger (which he had to be feeling towards Carson in the face of what the Beta had done) show on his face. Instead he calmly offered Peter his hand, waiting for the Omega to come back to him.

“Daniel already knows, Peter. Sam only knows that your un-Michael Carson killed Robinson in a protective rage and attacked you when you threatened to go to the police, but Daniel knows as much as we do. If he hadn’t been able to handle it, he never would have been told what hospital you were in.” Greg sat in his chair, keeping very still.

Peter wrapped his arms around his body, trembling wildly as he stared at his partner who sat there patiently, hand still out stretched.

“I’m still here.” Daniel kept his voice firm.

“I’m dirty.” Peter choked out.

“You’re mine.” There was no room for opposition in his voice.

“I’m-”

“Mine.” Daniel repeated.

Peter placed a shaking hand in Daniel’s outstretched palm, allowing the Dom to raise it up to his lips and gently kiss his knuckles. A sob broke free and Daniel pulled him close, raining kisses on his hair and stroking his back as Peter buried his face in the crook of Daniel’s neck.

Greg stayed quiet, letting them both regain their equilibrium. Behind him Sally leant on his chair back, like him staying as unobtrusive as possible while Peter tried to process the idea that his partner knew and wasn’t turning away from him in disgust. It reinforced to Greg that telling Daniel beforehand so none of this was new to him and the focus could remain with Peter had been a very good idea. Even the completely understandable shock could have been fatal to their relationship and Peter’s mental stability at this point.

It took about ten minutes for the tremor running through Peter’s body to return to the almost unnoticeable levels it had been when they’d arrived. Peter turned his head enough to meet Greg face to face, but didn’t move from his sheltered spot, head tucked under Daniel’s chin.

“What did Robinson say to you at the club?” Greg asked again, recognising his cue.

“He passed by, was knocked into me by someone and had to reach over me to steady himself on the bar. It put him too close. Most Alphas can’t pick me out in the club crowd, too many people, but he was right pressed up against me.” Peter sighed, closing his eyes and turning his face just slightly into Daniel’s chest. “I knew I shouldn’t have been out that night, but there was no decent reason to cancel. He’d still be alive if I’d just said I didn’t feel like it.”

“It’s not your fault.” Sally shook her head lightly.

Peter didn’t look like he agreed, but kept talking.

“He gave me this really intense look and said I was being brave, and that if I decided to ditch the suppressants I’d be half decent and might snag some Alpha worth,” his voice faltered, “fucking. Then he left.”

“And you didn’t notice Michael Carson at the club?” Greg asked.

“No, not as such.” Peter carefully replied. “I thought I saw him out of the corner of my eye, but until the b-body was found I didn’t actually think I saw him.”

Between them, Greg and Sally guided Peter through the events of that night and the night of his attack. None of the information was new or particularly startling, having been provided by other parties or security cameras in the most part.

“Thank you.” Greg twirled his pen absently as he studied the young Sub before him, weighing his next words. “I’m not a lawyer, Peter, but from discussing the case with them this can go a few ways. As I already said, we can charge your Uncle with murder and attempted murder, most likely without you needing to testify though that will depend on the judge and whether he’ll accept written testimony, or if the defence will call you as a witness when the prosecution fails to, though I can’t see them wanting you too much.

“Alternatively, we can also charge him with sexual abuse of a minor, sexual abuse of a related Submissive and provision of suppressants to an underage Omega, but you will then be required to give evidence in court.”

“And if you just charge him with murder, Peter won’t have to talk about all that in court?” Daniel asked.

“He still might have to.” Greg admitted. “It’s up to the lawyers now, but he might not have to go into as much detail or be cross examined as harshly.”

“Do I have a choice?” Peter asked in a small voice.

“If you don’t want to move forward with an action for his acts against you personally, I can recommend to the prosecutor not to go down that path.” Greg offered him a reassuring smile, knowing that no matter how much he wanted to pin every charge he could on Michael Carson and make it stick, that might not be what was best for Peter. “You don’t have to decide now, but if you think you will want to press charges we’ll need to start getting some details off you, start digging up supporting evidence for court.”

Peter nodded. Greg could understand the indecision on his face. It was a lot to ask Peter to talk about what happened to him even with a psychologist, let alone whether he wanted it aired, hostilely raked over, measured, poked, prodded, and challenged in a court in front of strangers and the world’s media, but just as clearly Peter wanted some recognition that what had happened to him was wrong, some sort of closure. It would be a tough choice, but Peter had been willing to risk it all and stand up to Carson, suggesting strength even he didn’t realise he had.

“I…” Peter stopped and closed his mouth again.

“If you’d like we can ask you some general things now.” Sally offered. “Give you a feel for whether you’ll be able to go into more detail later.”

“It’s up to you.” Greg added. “If you don’t think you can do it now, or you’d rather a Beta or Female Sub officer, that’s fine.”

“No it’s… what sort of questions?” Peter relaxed a little as Daniel stroked his hair.

“Can you remember how old you were when it started?” Greg asked. “Just roughly, if you can’t or don’t want to say.”

“No, no it’s just… hard. My parents,” He took a deep breath, “they never really liked me, you know? He, Uncle Mike, was the only one there if I was upset or needed something. He’d hold me while I cried or hug me or touch me, but it was never, you know, weird. He, he taught me to catch.” There was a begging, pleading tone to the last sentence.

Greg nodded, not expecting Sally to speak and starting slightly when she did.

“It was possibly entirely normal. He was your Uncle and you were still a little kid.”

Peter’s face eased slightly in relief at the idea that maybe, just maybe his entire life wouldn’t be pronounced twisted and wrong, that maybe some of his memories were able to stay untainted by the later mess his life turned into.

“When did it change?”

Sally propped on the foot of the bed, holding Peter’s gaze. She didn’t smile reassuringly or change her body language in any way. Greg worried briefly that Peter might be put off by her brusque unyielding tone, but he seemed perfectly comfortable, even comforted, by her business-like manner.

“Probably my first pseudo- Heat I guess, so twelve, thirteen?”

“But it was nothing really overt?” Sally noted down the age.

“He changed a bit, was more protective of me, but my, my parents didn’t take me being an Omega well. I don’t know why, but Dad was really aggressive after that and Mum was even more distant so… Uncle Mike was the one who talked to me about it and explained things, then got me the suppressants.”

“When did you really notice it?” Sally pressed.

“Fifteen.” Peter swallowed. “The suppressants… they’re hard to calculate and I messed up, must have forgotten to take them or something. I was at his place that weekend and I went into Heat. Not a full Heat, but it was… bad.”

‘What a coincidence.’ Greg thought savagely. Out loud he said, “And what was your Uncle’s response?”

“He h-helped.” Peter blushed, stammering around the words. “He sent me d-down, and gave me some eq-equipment to use. T-talked me through it.”

Daniel’s hands twitched on Peter’s shoulder, but he said nothing.

“After that he touched me even more, casually you know, and, and whenever I started to get jumpy, got too wound up and needed someone to take care of me he’d send me down. It wasn’t sexual,” he quickly tagged on the end. Then sighed at the disbelieving look on everyone’s faces, though Greg tried to hide his behind a mask of professionalism he knew he failed, and admitted, “Mostly. It became more that way over time. I guess.”

“Do you know what Carson had planned?” Greg asked, wondering exactly what Peter had been told.

“I hoped once I was done with uni I could move out and not be… not be under his control anymore. He wanted me to live with him during uni, but I put out the ad for a flatmate without him knowing and he couldn’t stop it then.” Peter avoided the question just slightly, leading Greg to suspect he might have had an inkling what Carson had had planned.

“I’m sorry to ask this, Peter, but when you say he sent you down, can you tell us the sort of things he did?” Greg kept his pen ready, mostly as an aid to manage his response to whatever answer Peter gave.

“He would tie me up, scarves at first so I could work free if I wanted, but, but then once I turned sixteen he started using handcuffs more. He’d use a paddle sometimes, and, and for the last few years a c-crop. And he’d, he’d _talk_ to me, telling me how much I l-loved it, how much of a s-slut I was for needing him and wasn’t I lucky he was there to stop me throwing myself at some Dom who’d just hurt-t me cause I was too weak to look after myself.”

“That’s rubbish.” Greg spoke without thinking. “You’re not weak.”

“I’m just an Omega.” Peter said in a defeated voice. “We’re just weak willed s-sluts.”

“T-”

“The biggest, most head-strong git I know,” Sally spoke over the top of Greg before he could manage more than the first syllable, “is an Omega and trust me no one would call him weak. Bastard, git, unprincipled pain in the arse, but not weak. Berk stares down Doms for fun.”

Peter ducked his head and blinked rapidly. Michael Carson had done a thorough job of trying to destroy the kid, but he hadn’t succeeded. It might take some time before Peter realised that, but Greg didn’t doubt one day he would.

“Peter, did Carson ever attempt to stimulate you or want you to do the same to him?”

“Yes.” Peter struggled before giving Sally a more complete answer. “He’d use his h-hand on me and m-my mouth.”

“Other than oral stimulation, did he ever attempt any penetration?” Sally appeared decisive, but Greg recognised the slight hesitance in her body language. She wasn’t sure how much further to go before it was too much.

“H-he’d use h-his fin-fingers and-”

“You don’t have to go through this now.” Greg broke in. “You can speak to an officer at a later date and-”

“No, no, no.” Peter’s voice was ragged around the edges and he was breathing hard. “He used his fingers and he had a drawer full of toys he’d tie me up and use and wouldn’t stop till I begged and he’d fuck me with them after whipping me and-”

Daniel scooped his Sub up, pulling him into his lap and cradling him close as Peter lost control, tears streaming down his face.

“Never again.” Daniel kissed Peter’s hair, his ears, his forehead, wherever he could reach. “He’s never going to touch you again, I promise, I promise.”

Conferring with a quick glance, Greg and Sally closed their notebooks and stood to leave. They’d pushed Peter, and Daniel, far enough that day. Too far, but it was too late for that now.

“W-wait.” Peter choked out as they reached the door. “Aren’t y-you going to arr-rest me?”

“Arrest you?” Greg turned confused.

“F-for the suppressants a-and t-the sex.” Peter clutched tighter at Daniel as though afraid Greg and Sally were going to march him away then and there.

“Wh-no, no we’re not going to arrest you.” Greg walked back over, stopping a safe distance from the bed when Daniel began to stiffen at his proximity. “You’re not at fault for what was done to you, and I’m not going to arrest you for taking what your Uncle gave you.”

Peter burst into a fresh wave of tears, relief this time Greg thought, and Daniel moved to take them both down to the bed, covering Peter protectively with his body while growling Greg and Sally out of the room.

Sally didn’t say anything, following Greg as he stalked over to the nurse’s station, attempting the polite cheerful cop exterior.

“Hi, DI Lestrade-”

“For Peter Carson, yes?” The no nonsense woman behind the counter stuck out her hand and shook his firmly. “Susan Graylyn, I’m the one who-”

“Called, thanks.” Greg smiled charmingly at her.

Susan smiled back, brushing stray brown hairs back from her slightly chubby but good natured face.

“How’s he going?” Greg asked. “On the medical side of things, I mean.”

“Well, all things considered. He’s in PT, lost some mobility and fine motor control, and he’ll probably have a couple of speech therapy classes as well to regain proper speech, but he should be discharged next week. Continue as an outpatient.”

Greg nodded. That did explain the unnatural cadence in Peter’s speech. “The tremor in his hand?”

“Yes, poor dear. It’s so hard with head injuries to tell what might be affected, but he’s got all his memory and they think they can reduce it. He’s not an artist or a scientist, so even if it does linger he should be okay.” Susan was briskly sympathetic, the kind of manner developed by those who saw a lot of people pass through and still cared.

“We’ve got his phone back at the station. If tech’s done I’ll come by with his effects next week. Tell him for me, when they’re calmer?” Greg flashed Susan another grin as she agreed.

The fragile silence held until they made it outside in the car park where it was broken by the loud metallic clang of Greg’s foot impacting with a bin.

“That sick fuck!” He raged. “I can’t fucking believe-”

He broke off and strode over to the wall, digging his fingers painfully into the concrete. The harsh drag of air searing in and out of his lungs was lost in the polluted noise of traffic as he struggled with control. It wasn’t just what had been done to Peter, it was the idea that Michael Carson had convinced him that not only was it all his fault, but that if it ever came to light Peter would be strung up as Carson’s accomplice and prosecuted alongside him.

“He actually fucking thought we would…” He let his voice trail off and resisted the impulse to punch the wall, barely.

With a forceful push away from the wall Greg stormed to the car and slammed his foot repeatedly into the solid tyre until his foot ached. Sally trailed behind, making sure to give him space. She handed the keys over when he held out his hand in demand without comment.

“You were quite forward.” He finally remarked, concentrating on the cars as he pulled out of the hospital drive.

“Sometimes treating what happened as if it were just another crime helps. Makes them feel less like something’s wrong with them, less isolated. Just another victim like everyone else, not special. Not wrong.” She sighed and looked out the window, working a stress ball in one hand as she squeezed through her own coping methods. “And others are traumatised by it even more. Depends on the individual. Saw too many kids go both ways in Juvvie.”

“Fair enough.” Greg had come up through drugs and vice, a completely different kettle of fish, and Alphas weren’t normally allowed near abuse victims, everyone too worried about scaring them further. “Fair enough.”

“Sir?”

“Yes, Donovan?” Greg kept an eye on the speedometer, pedantically making sure he stayed within the speed limit.

“Never tell the Freak what I said. It was just because Carson needed to hear it, that’s all.”

“Of course not.”

~*~

There was no email waiting when he got home.


	33. Chapter 33

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Evening all. Happy mid-week. I imagine that after last time you'll be glad to know that there's no real warnings for this chapter.

Saturday morning Greg indulged in a lie in, ignoring the guilt inducing squarks of his alarm trying to force him to run and snoozing way past ten. He would have slept longer, but the sounds of another person wandering around the house dragged him sharply from the half-doze he was luxuriating in. By the time he recognised Mrs Potts’s humming the damage was done and there was no chance of getting back to his somnolent state so he continued down the staircase headed for the kitchen.

“Morning.” He mumbled sleepily, reaching blindly for his small tin of instant, granular gold.

“Good Morning. You know you’re going to have to keep that away from the baby when it arrives.”

Greg grunted an acknowledgement. It was only coffee. Mrs Potts tutted back at him in return and bustled off, the laundry basket tucked under one arm.

He really was getting spoilt, Greg thought, with all the household chores being done for him.

It was hard to decide what to do with a free day. He used to flick through case files or do his housekeeping and required DIY repairs, and since moving in with Mycroft as much time as possible had been spent with him, but he’d deliberately not brought case files home, the chores were Mrs Potts closely guarded domain, and there was no Mycroft.

Gathering up his laptop, Greg made his way to the TV Room, preparing to dig in for a day of nothing. First though he had to see if Mycroft had replied, hoping yes, but sadly expecting not. The hollow feeling in his chest when his suspicions were confirmed threatened to lodge in his throat, but he blinked down his disappointment and decided to feel angry instead.

_Saturday 14/5/11 11:09 am_

_To: Mycroft Holmes <_diklr_3496@whitehall.gov.uk _>_

_Subject: Really?_

_Ignoring my email won’t make this go away. It’s been coming for weeks and you’re well aware of that._

_Stop acting like a five year old and write back._

_Greg_

He killed time watching movies, zoning out as his higher brain stopped thinking in favour of explosions and corny dialogue. He was well and truly settled in for the evening, still flipping to check his email every now and then, and contemplating ordering pizza, when John called with an invitation for beers and a match at the pub.

Seeing how he wasn’t doing anything anyway, Greg agreed.

There was a boisterous crowd for the match and John and Greg stumbled home at close having drunk much more than either of them planned. At least this time though, Greg thought as John unsuccessfully navigated a step otherwise indistinguishable from any other and crashed into the wall giggling, he wasn’t the only one plastered.

The door to the flat wasn’t locked so a repeat of the seven tries to get into the building wasn’t required, though Greg did stumble as it opened for no determinable reason eliciting more giggles from John.

John, Greg decided, was very giggly, and cuddly, and he had big blue eyes like a kitten.

Sherlock was seated in the kitchen doing something that involved beakers of unlabelled clear liquid that was almost definitely not water. John staggered over to him, wrapping one arm across Sherlock’s chest and burying his nose in the mess of curls.

“Come to bed.” It was probably meant to be a whisper.

“You’re drunk.” Sherlock absently replied, frowning as he carefully measured out four drops from one solution, adding them to another.

“And you’re shexy. Come to bed.” John’s hand started wondering down Sherlock’s shirt, unsuccessfully fumbling at buttons.

Sighing Sherlock capped the bottled in front of him with a flourish and covered the rest of the beakers with a flick of a tea towel. Standing he took his first look at his totalled Dom and Greg and rolled his eyes. Greg thought he muttered “idiots” under his breath, but right then with the way the ground was beginning to spin, holding onto the wall was far more important than working out what Sherlock was saying.

“What exactly are your chances of navigating the stairs on your own?” Sherlock’s acerbic tone was at odds with the patient gentle way he fended off John’s drunken advances.

Greg debated whether to give the answer he wanted or the one he suspected was true, despite having managed one set not five minutes before, but Sherlock had already answered his own question and moved on.

“Go brush your teeth.” He ordered, catching John’s wondering hands and turning him towards the bathroom.

“Bed.” John demanded, trying to pull Sherlock with him.

“Teeth. I’ll see to Lestrade and meet you there.”

“Promise?”

“Teeth.” Sherlock repeated, sending John stumbling off towards the bathroom.

Greg protested the entire way up the stairs that he was fine and didn’t need Sherlock there; continually ignoring the fact Sherlock was supporting nearly all his weight.

“Hey, Shhe-lock,” Greg listed slightly to the side as Sherlock propped him against the wall to open the door, “wassht’s Mysh middle name?”

“Ptolemy.” Sherlock remarked absently, trying to get an arm back around Greg’s chest to guide him through the space.

“No!” Greg pulled back, falling into the door frame so his vision went a little blurry.

“Yes, though I doubt you’ll remember in the morning.”

“Mine’sh francoissh, washt yours?”

“Shoes.”

Greg stared up at the ceiling from where he was suddenly sprawled on the bed and tried to work out how to get to his feet to do the laces.

“Oh for…” Sherlock knelt beside the bed and efficiently pulled apart the sloppily tied laces.

“Shhouln’t you be witsh looover boy?” Greg tried to sit up and bat Sherlock’s hands away to do it himself, but had to stop still leaning on his elbows as the world began to lurch again.

“John will have passed out the second he was on the bed, if not before, just like you’re about to.”

Greg meant to tell Sherlock he was wrong and that was utterly ridiculous, but before he could manage the words, proved Sherlock correct and passed out.

~*~

A loud horrible sound was trying to wake him, blaring out an awful run of notes again and again and again before settling for a harsh beep. Glad it was gone, Greg tried to drift further back to sleep because he knew, just knew, he didn’t want to wake up, but the beep came again and his head _hurt_.

Burying his face in the pillow with a groan, Greg tried his hardest to ignore his head, ignore the noise, and ignore life given everything hurt so much.

Life struck back as his phone, of course it was his ruddy phone, rang again.

He fumbled around and eventually got it somewhere near his mouth. “Lessade.”

Murder.

Knowing he’d never understand let alone remember the address he told dispatch to text it to him and began the slow, painful process of moving.

Joy of all joys, someone (John?) had been considerate enough to leave water and painkillers next to the bed. The stairs were their own challenge and Greg told himself again that he had to stop doing this. He wasn’t in his twenties anymore and didn’t bounce back the way he used to.

Sherlock was at the table reading the paper, crimson dressing gown over his suit. The table appeared safe, so Greg collapsed in a chair, pillowing his head on his arms and wishing he could go back to bed and sleep it off. Eyes swept disdainfully over his admittedly pathetic figure and returned to the paper.

“Well you’ve beaten John to some form of awareness, however limited it may be.”

“Alays say my ‘wareness limited.” Greg mumbled into his arms. His head was pounding in time with his heart. “Coffee.”

“I believe water and sleep would be more helpful.” Sherlock turned the page. Loudly.

“Need coffee.” Greg insisted. “Crime scene.”

“You’re going to a crime scene like that?” Sherlock sounded thoroughly scandalised, though Greg refused to lift his head to check.

“Murder.”

“But what if it’s interesting? You’ll miss everything of importance.” An irritated sigh stirred the air between them. “You’ll be even more useless than usual, more useless than… Anderson!”

Of course it wasn’t about Greg being in no state to do justice by the victim and everything to do with the ‘obvious’ clues he’d miss.

“Who’s on forensics?”

“Andesson.” Or at least, Greg assumed it would be Anderson.

“Oh for…”

Sherlock’s chair scraped loudly across the floor, screeching into the pain filled corners of Greg’s brain and shaking them up. He moaned again, trying to convince himself blacking out at the table instead of going to work was a bad idea. It was just so comfortable and…

“Here.”

A mug of coffee and two more painkillers appeared next to Greg’s elbow.

“Already had two.” He did pick up the coffee.

“Just take them.” Sherlock disappeared in a swirl of scarlet silk, making Greg feel slightly dizzy.

When he reappeared it was sans dressing gown guiding a not-really-awake-and-definitely-hung-over John who already held a mug of coffee in his hand, though he didn’t seem to have the wherewithal to do anything with it.

“Do hurry up, Lestrade.” Sherlock chided, finding John’s shoes and putting them on his feet. He was halfway through manoeuvring John into his coat before Greg realised what was going on.

“Hang on, you’re not coming.”

“I assume this is the address on your phone?” Sherlock asked, casually holding the electronic bane of Greg’s life in his palm.

“Sher-”

“Today, Detective Inspector.” Sherlock called over his shoulder, guiding his partner to the door and prodding him down the stairs.

Greg cursed voraciously, navigating the stairs to the spare room to fetch his shoes as quickly as his aching head would allow. He was extremely aware at that moment that if he didn’t reach Sherlock before a cab, the pillock wouldn’t wait for him.

He made it. Just.

John was sitting in the cab, head tilted back against the headrest with his eyes closed. He wasn’t asleep because he winced when Greg slid into the front seat and shut the door with a slam. He was still holding the coffee mug.

“Where to?” The cabbie asked, eyeing the three of them with some trepidation.

Given Greg probably looked like he’d been dragged through a fence backwards and John was very obviously hung over, it was probably fair enough.

“You realise I know nothing about this scene.” Greg warned as they drove, Sherlock having given up the address. “You can’t complain it’s just some boring domestic.”

“The state you’re in you couldn’t see the difference between an ordinary domestic and something more worthwhile.” Sherlock shot back. “Besides, two bodies and one is missing its clothes, which don’t appear to be on the site at all. It at least shows potential.”

“How do you- Phone! Now!” Greg demanded, holding out a hand.

Sherlock sulked the rest of the trip, an entirely preferable state of affairs as he sulked quietly in deference to John’s hangover allowing Greg’s aching head a small measure of relief as well.

In retrospect, stopping to fumble some notes out of his wallet to split the fare with John was something of a mistake. Of course, in retrospect getting drunk so he was idiotic enough to bring Sherlock (or more correctly, be brought by Sherlock) to a crime scene with Sally and Anderson in attendance was also a mistake, but stopping to fuss with money was a more immediately idiotic move because Sherlock didn’t stop to wait and Sally was between him and the bodies.

“Get lost, Freak.” She blocked his way, chin up, arms crossed over her chest. “You weren’t invited.”

“If your DI could hold his drink better I wouldn’t need to be here.” Sherlock sniped back.

Sally looked over Sherlock’s shoulder, eyes falling on Greg who was hurrying towards them as fast as he could and John Watson who was soldiering through every stolid step and looked like it. Her lips thinned and Greg felt like a teenager being caught partying on a school night.

Noticing Weatherly carefully marking exhibits with plastic numbers, Greg was reminded things could always get worse.

“Get out Freak.” Sally didn’t budge.

Sherlock straightened, shoulders rolling back and down, chin tilting arrogantly in response. Greg was close enough to see his eyes darting wildly, skipping over Sally, the crime scene, Anderson, Greg, everyone and everything.

Shit, shit, shit.

Sherlock’s mouth twisted into a cruel smirk.

“Just because you’ve finally called it off with Anderson for good is no reason to yell at me, Sally.”

“Sherlock.” John had apparently woken up, if the hissing tone of voice and suddenly active footsteps were anything to judge by.

“Oh please, it’s obvious. Anderson – not wearing his wedding ring, but Donovan not looking overjoyed. Rather, determined, grim and otherwise not enjoying vast amounts of celebratory sex. She’s trying very hard not to look at that constable, the same constable Lestrade’s expression tightened upon seeing. Conclusion, that is PC Weatherly, the Sub Anderson is well known to have recently had an ill-advised one night stand with.”

At this stage everyone was staring. No one at the scene was even trying to hide the fact they were eavesdropping on the not very private conversation.

“Now, Weatherly: At work, but looking shaky and unsure; Shadows under the eyes indicate not sleeping; slight gauntness around the face indicates slight corresponding weight loss, counter balanced by some weight gain because her uniform still fits, even is pulling a little more tightly across the chest. The timing is again suggestive. Conclusion: PC Weatherly is pregnant and Donovan has finally refused to take Anderson back.”

Greg closed his eyes, trying his hardest to feel the bed underneath him because this _had_ to be a nightmare.

“About time too.” Sherlock sniffed disdainfully. “Limited as your potential is, he was certainly holding you back from achieving it.”

Without waiting he breezed past Sally into the house, leaving everyone else standing outside in a frozen, silent tableau.

No one moved. No one looked. After months of not being looked at, it was a familiar sensation. Nobody twitched, openly staring at the ground or the sky until a car backfired several blocks away breaking the tension. Instantly everyone began talking in overly loud voices.

John took a hesitant step towards Sally and stuttered out “Um, f-from Sherlock that was, um, probably meant as a compliment” before fleeing into the house after his Sub.

Greg followed along, carefully watching his steps rather than look up at Sally.

“Sherlock, you arse, you have ninety seconds left.” He yelled into the house, ignoring the way it hurt his head.

There were the usual protests, but they cut off very quickly suggesting that no matter what Sherlock thought, John was putting his foot down.

“Find the husband.” Sherlock looked thoroughly put out. “How ordinary.”

“Sherlock…” Greg seethed.

“Boring.” The Omega wondered away, not even looking back over his shoulder.

John sent Greg an apologetic look and hurried after Sherlock, still holding his ceramic mug of coffee. From the vague flash of something across Sherlock’s face and the way he stopped to wait for John to catch up, Greg figured John’s face hadn’t stayed apologetic once he’d turned away.

“Alright,” Greg roared, “get to work. Donovan, find a husband. I don’t care which corpse’s spouse, just ID and find one. Stevens, find me the other. Everyone else, get this scene processed.”

God help them all.

_Saturday 14/5/11 8:05 pm_

_To: Gregory Lestrade <_uhbve_3483@secure.co.uk>

_Subject: Re: Really?_

_Gregory,_

_I would like to start by making it perfectly clear that I would not stoop to the entirely childish position of refusing civil communication and as such resent the implication. My time at the moment is very much not my own, I am afraid to say, and consequently is extremely limited._

_I must confess to a level of ignorance regarding what my brother has communicated to you regarding our family, however I imagine most of it is blown out of proportion in truly Sherlock-esque style. My brother has always possessed a well-developed sense of the dramatic. While it is true Holmesian tradition is that the head of the family must approve suitable names for the next generation, you are mistaken in your apparent belief that this is a procedure I have not undergone willingly and am not pleased with the outcome. I understand this is not a tradition observed by your family, but I would ask you to respect my choice to follow my family’s ancient routines even if you cannot respect them yourself._

_Mycroft P. Holmes_

_Sunday 15/5/11 5:47 pm_

_To: Mycroft Holmes <_diklr_3496@whitehall.gov.uk _>_

_Subject: Re:Re:Really?_

_That’s a low blow, My. You know I respect you, that I’m willing to live with most of your choices. This is different. This isn’t flight plans or surveillance or security. This kid is_ us _. Us, My, not you, not me, us._

 _So what about respecting me, euh My? Where do I stand? I won’t ask what’s more important, me or outdated traditions, cause that’s clear innit, but I’m not gonna stop. If you don’t respect_ me _enough to even consider alternatives, what else are you going to shut me out of? We can’t have anything together, limited though you demand it be, if you don’t respect me._

_Oh, and congratulations, your brother’s “overly developed sense of the dramatic” just outed Sally, Weatherly and Anderson at a crime scene._

_Humphrey? Sheridan? Quinn?_

_Greg_

“Lestrade!”

Packenham’s roar echoed through the Yard, reverberations lingering in the unnatural silence that followed. Wearily Greg capped his pen, more surprised Packenham had waited until midmorning than anything else.

On the other hand, there wasn’t a very large audience first thing Monday morning.

He’d sent Sally out following up leads as soon as there had been enough witnesses to testify to his orders. She’d looked like she wanted to protest, but submitted gracefully to his protective instincts in order to not undermine his authority in front of the other officers.

The silence followed him as he walked calmly towards the irate Sub standing at the entrance to the bullpen. Dimmock tried to send him a covert supportive smile, but just ended up looking constipated. Gregson was scowling angrily, the tapping pen suggesting worry behind the grumpy shield. Whiting was at a scene, the bastard, but Greg doubted he’d have been called up as well. Weatherly was with him, a small fact that almost made Greg forgive him his absence.

“My office. Now.” Packenham barked, spinning on his heel and stalking off.

Posture perfect Greg followed after him.

“Well?” Packenham hissed, settling into his chair.

Mulgrave already occupied the other seat, twisted so it was him and Packenham rather than him and Greg. In lieu of taking the seat they’d left and surrendering entirely to their authority, Greg remained standing.

“Sir?” He asked gaze on the wall just over Packenham’s left shoulder.

“Well what do you have to say about this latest debacle Lestrade?” Packenham dug his fingers into the arm rest.

“To which particular debacle are you referring, Sir?” Greg kept his voice neutral, subordinate officer to superior.

“The incident at your crime scene yesterday!” Packenham’s eyes flashed dangerously.

“Regarding the upcoming leave of absence by PC Weatherly.” Mulgrave added; to diffuse the atmosphere or merely get his own penny in it was impossible to say.

“PC Weatherly will soon be taking maternity leave. My officers were aware of this fact. The revelation was made to other personnel on the scene by a third party. There were no further words or actions outside those proscribed by their duties by any parties present.” Greg kept his eyes firmly on his chosen point.

When he was finally released an hour later, unpunished because nothing had actually happened, he couldn’t help but wonder why exactly his bosses appeared to hate him so much.

_Monday 16/5/11 12:07 pm_

_To: Gregory Lestrade <_uhbve_3483@secure.co.uk>

_Subject: Re: Re: Re: Really?_

_Gregory, you’re being unreasonable. It’s just a name._

_Mycroft Holmes_

_Monday 16/5/11 7:31 pm_

_To: Mycroft Holmes <_diklr_3496@whitehall.gov.uk _>_

_Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Really?_

_Mycroft,_

_No, I’m not. This isn’t just about his name any more. This is about whether or not you’re going to let me have any say in our child and you know it._

_Let me in, My._

_Got yelled at at work today. I could strangle your bloody brother sometimes, you know that? Still employed, but I swear to God only because they couldn’t justify firing me._

_Greg_

Greg wasn’t quite sure what he was meant to be doing Tuesday morning, sorting through the various piles just to check he hadn’t left something undone underneath. Somehow, magically, no one had been killed since Sunday and the two bodies in the building had been resolved in less than a day, thanks to Sherlock.

Stevens, PC assistant luckily in tow, had knocked on the door to his body’s house and was barely out of the way before the enraged blood covered Alpha had charged out the door, knife in hand. After that, it had all be fairly simple and was entirely in the hands of forensics to match the blood and weapon to the dead.

“Sir!” Sally barged through the door, file and stack of papers in hand. “I, we, need a warrant.”

That caught Greg’s attention and he held out his hand for the paperwork.

“Who’s Donald Remington?” He asked, flipping through her draft affidavit. “And what do we like him for?”

“Drugs,” was Sally’s immediate response, “and possibly murder. Juniae Shaendal, the extra body from the Thames, was a huge advocate for equal rights. She spent a significant amount of time helping at the legal aid centre as well as the Sub Shelters, often trying to convince a lot of the Subs from the shelter to go and get legal advice and help.”

“She was a lawyer?” Greg frowned, trying to remember whether her father or Dom had mentioned that in the interview.

“Legal clerk.” Sally shook her head. “Working her way through night school to get her degree.”

That sounded more familiar to Greg. Her partner hadn’t missed her at first thinking she was at class or the library.

“Right Sorry, go on.”

“One of the Subs she helped recently was Bruce Carr. Bruce was a regular at the shelter. Young kid, only in his early 20s.”

Greg flipped back a few pages and found a series of photos of a young Beta of Indian appearance sporting a massive black eye and lacerations. The injuries had been carefully documented from multiple angles.

“Bruce’s Dom used to do that regularly apparently.” Sally’s voice was hard. “He ended up running to the shelters several times a year, before eventually going back. Attacks usually occurred in rounds of three, each worse as his Dom let out his anger at Bruce running away. There was never a fourth appearance at the shelter during these cycles and it would be three to nine months before they saw him again.”

Greg frowned angrily at the photos. “Why didn’t anyone report this?”

“Some of the Subs did, but domestic abuse is still a difficult issue and the claims were unable to be substantiated. Their Doms claimed accidents or consensual rough play. Most of them are too scared to report what happens, especially as their Doms claim they’re sorry and it won’t happen again. A lot of them are financially dependent on their Doms still and some of the female victims have kids with their partners. The shelter volunteers don’t want to scare them into not coming back, so they do what they can and don’t push too hard.”

Greg sighed and nodded. Domestic abuse was an on-going problem all over.

“Bruce,” Sally continued, “was apparently different. According to some of the shelter volunteers I spoke to he seemed to be genuinely terrified of his partner, but not because of the beatings. More like he was afraid of whom he was, not what. On one occasion one of the girls had seen him being confronted outside a supermarket while doing her shopping and dragged off by a couple of goons talking about The Boss and hadn’t he learnt by now not to upset The Boss.”

“And this boss,” Greg flipped another page, scanning over it while she talked. “Donald Remington?”

“Donald Remington. Vice is currently very interested in him for drugs and he’s suspected of gang involvement, though they haven’t pinned down how close to the top he is.” Sally confirmed. “Juniae managed to talk Bruce into going to the legal aid centre. Those photos are from the claim for severance she helped him file. One of the centre’s lawyers, Richard Cork, let him stay at his while they arranged space in a motel for him under an assumed name.”

“Okay, but this was Juniae’s thing, yeah? I don’t doubt she’s helped hundreds of Subs before, so why’d this kid and this Dom so important?” Greg leant back in his chair.

Sally gave him a light dangerous smile and flipped a few pages to a witness statement. “Because Donald Remington was seen assaulting Juniae Shaendal outside the legal aid centre and threatening to kill her if she didn’t tell him where Bruce was. Her co-workers had already gone home and none of them knew about the incident. One of the café owners was still closing up and saw.”

“Oh really?” Greg bared his teeth in what was almost a smile. “Then I think we owe Mr Remington a visit. Where’s Bruce now?”

“He’s disappeared.” Sally answered. “Whether Juniae’s death spooked him and he’s run, or his drug-running gang boss boyfriend has him I don’t know yet.”

“Let’s hope for the former.” Greg closed the folder and grabbed his jacket. “Else we might be finding his body instead.”

~*~

“Donald Remington? Open up, New Scotland Yard.” Greg banged again on the door. “Remington, if you’re in there, open up.”

“He’s gone out.” The statement was accompanied by the loud smack of bubble gum popping.

“Has he?” Greg turned to face the hallway’s new occupant, a woman of indeterminable age behind the caked on make-up.

“Oh yeah.” She chewed the gum loudly, twirling a strand of her stringy bleach blonde curls in what was probably meant to be a seductive manner. “Left ‘bout an hour ago. Keeps odd hours ‘e does.”

“Is there anyone else who can let us in?” Greg asked, flashing his ID at her.

“Tell you what, cutie. Just for you, I’ll fetch the spare key.” She gave him a flirtatious wink and sauntered back into her flat, too tight jeans and skimpy top clinging to the overflowing curves they couldn’t quite contain.

“So whatcha want with Donny?” She asked, brushing deliberately close past Greg to open the door.

“Thank you Miss…?” Greg opened the unlocked front door.

“Trixie.” She purred. “Come say hi before you leave.”

With a wink she went back to her flat, leaving the officers in control of Donald’s flat.

“Right,” Sally strode in, taking charge of her case. “We’re looking for anything to do with drugs, dealing and the murder of Juniae Shaendal. She didn’t have her wallet with her, so that might be a good place to start. Also, anything that can provide proof of Remington’s drug connections, or the systematic abuse of Bruce Carr.”

The officers set to work quickly, pulling the usual hiding spaces apart in their search. Greg wondered around the whole flat, getting a feel for it and the kind of person who lived there.

“Sir, Ma’am.” One of the uniforms called.

Greg and Sally headed over. The young Beta was kneeling next to a squeaky floorboard.

“It’s been replaced, Sir, Ma’am.” He looked up at them.

Sally looked at Greg then nodded to the constable. “Pull it up.”

It took some work with a screwdriver wedged between the boards, but with a creak the wood eventually lifted, gleaming nails extended like fangs.

Greg whistled. “That looks to me like a trafficable quantity of cocaine.”

“That it does.” Sally turned to one of the officers. “Contact the drugs squad and tell them to bring sniffer dogs. There might be more caches under the floorboards.”

“Well done, constable.” Greg smiled at the uniform, who stuttered and blushed that it was nothing, really, nothing.

“Well, you’ve got him on drugs.” Greg said to Sally once she turned back, “but there’s nothing to link him to the murder of Juniae Shaendal yet.”

“No,” Sally worried at her lip, “and nothing to give any kind of hint whether he knows where Bruce is either.”

“Sergeant Donovan,-”

The constable was cut off by the sounds of a fight at the end of the hallway. Hurrying out the door Greg and Sally could see a couple of officers from the drug squad Sally had had on call in the parking lot in case grappling with a tall ginger Beta.

“Hey, **hey**!” Sally yelled, running towards them. “Donald Remington, you are under arrest for drug trafficking, possession of a controlled substance, and suspicion of murder.”

Remington broke free of the hold, but with the officers on one side and Sally and Greg on the other there was no where he could go, and was soon subdued. Greg noticed that Sally took particularly vicious pleasure in slapping the cuffs around his wrists.

“Take him back to the station.” She ordered, taking her knee out of his back and allowing the uniforms to pull Remington to his feet. “Make sure to read him his rights on route.”

“Frickin bitch!” Remington, struck out, trying to head-butt her or something, held back by the uniforms.

“Get him out of here.” Greg waved them off in disgust.

The thumps and cussing could be heard down the stairs to the waiting cars below.

~*~

Inbox (0)

~*~

Greg sighed and rolled his shoulders, pushing back from his desk. There were a few officers still around. Dimmock sighing into a folder, head in his hands and a trickle of uniforms packing up to leave like Greg was about to do.

He hadn’t had a response from Mycroft yet and refused this time to break and email first. Besides, it was only Wednesday. One day was nothing.

The uniforms filed out with a wave, leaving the station almost empty. Definitely time to go home.

He was almost at the lift before his eyes registered that Dimmock’s was not the only light left on. Sally was also at her desk, forehead resting on one hand as she pored over files. The glow of success from yesterday’s arrest was long gone, subsumed to the knowledge that the only charge they could currently make stick was the drugs. There was no evidence in the flat to link Remington to the murder of Juniae and Bruce Carr was still missing.

He pressed the button for the ground floor with a sigh. Undoubtedly Sally would be there until some ungodly hour, fuelled by a need to prove Remington guilty of more than drug trafficking and the phantom of the cold, empty flat waiting at home. Greg had been there, done that, still occasionally felt that drive, that need. It had faded over the years since Jo left, whispered away in the darkness until its painful voice was hoarse, but still sometimes found the strength to scream out at him nonetheless, driving him to work long thankless hours as though solving this one would solve his life.

Mycroft usually gave him three days, somehow distinguishing between case and mood driven work, before pulling him out of the Yard and escorting him home.

Yes, he knew those moods. Intimately.

The breeze was warm, May continuing to attempt summer, and brave souls passed Greg chattering in short sleeves and flimsy dresses. Greg wasn’t that brave, knowing how capriciously London weather changed, but he had shed the overcoat, scarf and gloves from his regular wardrobe.

The lights were still on at Sally and Dimmock’s desks when Greg trudged back through the Yard twenty minutes later. He dropped one steaming bag on Dimmock’s desk and without waiting for his proud denials or brash gratitude continued on to Sally’s desk to drop the heavier bag next to her.

“Go home, Sir.” Sally didn’t look away from her screen.

“What’ve you got?” Greg snagged an office chair and wheeled it close.

“Go home, Sir.” She repeated stubbornly.

“I could say the same to you, sergeant.” Greg held out a takeaway container of pollo avocado. “What’ve you got?”

Sally watched him dangle it in front of her, jaw set stubbornly while she considered his offer. With a derisive snort she took it and disdainfully accepted the accompanying plastic fork.

“You really should go home, Sir.” She twirled the linguini around her fork.

“So should you. Any leads?” Greg opened his own spaghetti.

“Nothing.” Sally admitted angrily. “His car was in the area Juniae disappeared from, but I can’t put her in the car. Forensics says it’s been scrubbed clean. I can’t link Remington to any aspect of her murder except circumstantially, and there is absolutely zero sign of Bruce.”

“You’ve got him on drugs.” Greg reminded her gently.

“It’s not enough.” Sally growled despairingly. “I know he killed her, I just can’t find proof for a jury.”

“You might never manage. At least he’s going away for something.”

“Yeah, but…” Sally trailed off.

“We can’t solve them all, Donovan, and we can’t prove every case we solve.”

Sally sighed and took another bite so she didn’t have to reply. Greg let her eat in silence, replacing the lid on his takeaway and stealing down to Missing Persons for another box of records.

“You know you’re not supposed to remove those.” Sally commented, eyes flicking between her screen and a file as she verified a string of numbers.

“Yeah, yeah.” Greg dove in for another bite of spaghetti before opening the box. “I’ll have it back before morning, and if they’d get them all computerised already I wouldn’t have to.”

The quiet lasted for several hours, until Greg had to return his box of records and fetch a new one.

“Your chance of identifying the body this stage is-”

“About as good as your chance of linking Remington to that murder?” Greg raised an eyebrow. “We all have our cases, Donovan, and – oh. Well.”

Greg pulled the report at the front of the box out.

“Well,” Sally blinked at it over their takeaway, “that’s unexpected.”

“Yes,” Greg stared at the innocent piece of paper. “Yes, it really is.”


	34. Chapter 34

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Evening everyone. Hope you had a good weekend.
> 
> So the resolution of that not really mysterious cliffhanger ahead. We're almost at the end, which is very scary for me because I am no where near done with the next one! Going to have to have some serious nose to the grindstone time.

Greg pulled the squad car to a smooth stop in front of Sally’s place and sounded the horn. When she failed to appear, he honked again twice in quick succession, only laying off when she struggled through the door, halfway into her trench coat, toast in her mouth. She was barely in the car before Greg pulled out, GPS calling directions.

“’it uv a ‘urry, ‘ir?” Sally managed around the toast.

“Because you don’t want the answer too.” Greg drummed his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel waiting for the lights to change.

“Not as wound up as you though.” She unabashedly slurped her morning coffee out of its travel mug.

Greg didn’t have it in him to feel jealous, not that morning.

“Do you think this is the best way to go about this, Sir?” Sally asked, holding the cup steady as Greg took the speed bump a fraction fast.

“No,” he admitted, “so I got a warrant first thing, just in case.”

“A warrant?” Sally twisted to look at the folders sprawled across the backseat behind the security barricade. “When did you get that typed up?”

“Last night.” Greg was forced to brake for the lights.

“Last night after we agreed to go home?” Sally raised an eyebrow. It didn’t go anywhere near as forcibly high as Mycroft’s, but the effect was the same.

He didn’t answer and she let it drop, turning on Radio 4 instead.

“Thank you.” She said in the break between programs. “For staying last night. You didn’t have to.”

“Just returning the favour.”

The GPS told him to go left in 300 metres.

The Carsons did not, surprise, surprise, live in a particularly well off area. Thomas Carson might have won the genetic lottery as far as being an Alpha, but his older brother Michael had certainly got the rest of the luck and talent. Thomas must have been good looking once upon a time, before the beer belly and the perpetual stubble, but he hadn’t struck Greg last time they spoke as possessing any great store of intelligence or even his brother’s snake-oil smarts.

Sharon Carson had made even less of an impression. The overall word Greg would use to describe Sharon was tired: tired of her situation, tired of her partner, utterly tired of her life. It was written in the wrinkles around her mouth and forehead, the lack of laughter lines around her eyes, and the worn disdain with which she treated everyone and everything she was forced to interact with.

Neither of them particularly wanted to let Greg through the door, but they caved eventually.

“Whatta you want?” Thomas sneered. “Haven’t you done enough to tear this family apart?”

“If you’re referring to the fact I’ve arrested your brother for murder and the attempted murder of Peter, Mr Carson-”

“Jumped up little slut.” Thomas mooched lower in his armchair allowing his ample behind to spread and cushion his way. “Told Mike he was giving that kid airs and graces, now look what ‘es gonna done.”

“Quite.” Greg replied coolly. “It might interest you to know Mr Carson that Michael Carson is also under arrest for indecent conduct with a minor and if I thought at any point you’d given enough of a damn about Peter to notice you’d be being charged as an accomplice.”

That seemed to penetrate Thomas Carson’s bluster and he paled under the brown fuzz covering his heavy jowls.

“’ow see here,” he protested, “that little slut was asking for it.”

“Oh, so you did know.” Greg gave him a crocodile’s smile, full of teeth.

“I-”

“Shut up, Thomas.” Sharon slammed the tea pot unceremoniously on the coffee table. “We don’t have to answer to you,” she sniffed in Greg’s direction, “’ot unless you arrest us and I’ll have a lawyer, if you please.”

“We’ll see how we go.” Greg stared back until she was forced to look away. “I’m actually here about something else.”

“Like what?” Thomas sprayed half-chewed biscuit crumbs as he spoke.

“A bit of background.” Greg continued with forced pleasantness. “Who was Peter’s Bearer?”

“Dunno.” Thomas growled. “I ‘as drunk.”

“For nine months?” Sally didn’t sound all that sceptical. Thomas did give off the impression he could manage that.

“’asn’t exactly around for the pregnancy, ‘as I?” Thomas glowered from his chair. “Bitch showed up, ‘hoved the whelp into my hands and left again.”

“Is that so?” Greg cocked his head to one side and kept his gaze trained on the disgruntled couple fidgeting before him.

“I don’t care for what you’re in-sin-uating, Detective Inspector.” Sharon unsurprisingly was the one to speak out.

“Only that I’ve heard another version of this story.” Greg pulled a photocopy of the missing person’s report out of his folder. “One where three year old Jeremy Smith, who has the same birthmark on his wrist as Peter Carson, goes missing from his backyard in Oxford while his Bearer’s fetching the new baby from upstairs.”

“I-I-” There was sweat beading along Thomas’s busy hairline.

“I have a warrant for your DNA,” Greg laid it down on top of the report, “and I really don’t think it will match Peter’s. So the only question now is did you take Jeremy or was that Michael too?”

There was silence. The metaphorical pin could have fallen onto the floor and rung out in pure reverberating tones.

Thomas Carson chose to run.

Eyes darting wildly, trying to find a means of egress while Sharon wailed and threw the sofa cushions after him, ranting about his bloody brother and how she wished she had never taken his collar, he sprinted as fast as he could to the door.

He didn’t get far. He made it through the kitchen door and out the side gate, but he had been living a sedentary beer filled life while Greg had been running most mornings and chasing criminals, and Sherlock Holmes, for years. The way Thomas’s breath came in fits and gasps as Greg tackled him down to the ground forced Greg to roll him over to check his suspect wasn’t having a heart attack as soon as the cuffs were on his wrists.

He wasn’t, so Greg hauled him roughly to his feet and marched him back to the patrol car where Sally was already aiding a weeping Mrs Carson into the back.

“Thomas Carson, you are under arrest for aiding and abetting the kidnapping of Jeremy Smith, and facilitating the sexual abuse of a minor. You don’t have to say anything, but anything you do say may be used in court and it may seriously …”

Slamming the door after Thomas Carson was one of the most satisfying things Greg had been able to do all month.

~*~

Almost five weeks of prison had done a lot to wipe the gloss off Michael Carson’s exterior, but he still had his greasy nature and supercilious smile.

“Detective Inspector, we meet again.” There was a danger in his voice, the gleam of a caged animal in his eye. If he had been a snake, Greg could easily have seen him raised on his coils, fangs extended, ready to strike.

It wasn’t just for Peter’s sake it was best Michael Carson was found guilty and never saw the light of day.

“I don’t believe I’ve met your associate.” Michael Carson continued smoothly.

“DCI Mulgrave.” The Dom flashed his ID and settled next to Greg. “I understand you have declined to have your legal counsel present for this discussion.”

Greg had been surprised when Mulgrave had insisted on accompanying him to visit Carson, leaving Sally to finish processing the couple at the station. The tight look around the Beta’s eyes suggested that this latest development had made this case a priority, possibly because it was a potential PR nightmare if handled incorrectly, possibly because not every Beta was as twisted as Michael Carson and like all the other officers who knew anything about the case, Mulgrave wanted to see Michael Carson answer for as much as possible and had the power to ensure he could witness it so personally.

If public executions were still legal, Greg would have expected a crowd.

“Indeed.” Michael acknowledged with an oily smile. “Your good DI already has a taped confession so apparently I can hardly hurt my defence more.”

The look sent in Greg’s direction had a distinct underlay of anger. Greg declined to feel the slightest bit guilty and struggled to keep the satisfaction off his face.

“You do understand this may all be used in court?” He asked blandly, folding his hands on the table.

“Yes.” Carson replied shortly, mimicking Greg’s posture irreverently.

Greg ignored him, well aware Carson was trying to rile him up, irritate his Dominant side until Greg lashed out. Unfortunately for him, Greg didn’t have a Dominant side to rile, though the Alpha didn’t appreciate the disrespect, so Carson wouldn’t get what he wanted.

“Jeremy Smith.” Greg enunciated slowly and clearly.

Carson stiffened involuntarily, colour draining out of his cheeks. “W-who?”

“Jeremy Smith.” Greg repeated, enjoying the way Carson’s eyes darted to the door and back. “Or as you’ve been calling him, Peter Carson.”

“I don’t k-”

“Oh come on Carson.” Greg broke over the top. “We’ve found the missing persons report, we’re comparing the DNA, and your brother and his Bound Sub have already given you up. This is more of a courtesy call, give you a chance to say something before court.”

In his peripheral vision Greg could see the smirk hovering at the edges of Mulgrave’s mouth, held at bay by the tight chains of professionalism.

“I would like to see my attorney now.” Michael Carson forced out between clenched teeth.

His lips were pressed tightly together, skin bleached white around the edges, eyes hard with furrows edged in his forehead.

“As you wish, Mr Carson.” Mulgrave let the smirk spread. “Do give him a ring.”

~*~

“Hospital?” Sally greeted Greg as he walked in Thursday morning, sulking about the fact there had still been no email from Mycroft.

“Yep, just a sec.”

The only conversation on the way to the hospital was a single question - “What are you going to say to him?” - to which Greg only shrugged in response. The rest of the ride was spent shut up inside their own respective heads worrying about their own respective problems. Neither had the inclination for chitchat.

There was a different nurse on duty at the nurse’s station, but once their IDs were studied and approved they were waved through with the information that Peter had just finished physio and was in his room.

Not needing to make any Alpha point this time, Greg knocked lightly and waited in the doorway for Peter to acknowledge them. The Omega was dressed casually for PT in track pants and an oversized t-shirt, sweat patches darkening the material at his arm pits.

“Detective Inspector Lestrade,” Peter looked surprised to see them. “And DS…”

“Donovan.” Sally supplied when it was clear Peter was struggling to remember.

“Donovan.” He repeated.

Taking a deep breath he waved them in before retreating to the bed, knees pulled up in what was an unconscious defensive pose, though his face and body language was otherwise open enough.

“Is Daniel here?” Sally asked, standing next to the chair Greg appropriated as ranking officer.

“He’s at LSE. He does actually have classes. _Not_ that he’s been going.” From the irritated look on his face, it was an argument they’d had several times before Daniel had consented to go.

Peter sighed and looked back at Greg. “Did you have more questions?”

“New developments, as a matter of fact, but first,” Greg held out Peter’s phone, “forensics was done with this so I thought you might like it back.”

“Thanks.” Peter took the device and stared at it as if not quite able to believe it.

“Sorry,” he started again after a second, “it’s just so strange. It’s so…”

“Normal?” Greg gave him a sympathetic smile. “I know the feeling.”

Was in fact very familiar with the deep bewilderment when confronted with the evidence of such normality after a murder, a kidnapping, something that should have changed the world… and hadn’t.

Peter nodded, turning the phone over in his hands. It was switched off, but he brushed a finger over the face as if to unlock it nonetheless.

“Sorry,” he repeated, putting the phone on the cabinet table next to him with a determined thump. “You were saying? Developments? Do I need to testify after all?”

“No, no, nothing like that.” Greg paused. “Would you prefer to have Daniel here? We can wait while he comes.”

“He’s in class.” Peter replied frostily.

“Fair enough. Just thought I’d offer.” It was NSY policy to provide the option actually, but still. “Peter, yesterday Thomas and Sharon Carson were arrested and taken into custody. They’ll face a bail hearing this afternoon.”

“Mum and Da?” Peter looked bewildered. “Why?”

“They’re being charged as accessories to Michael Carson’s abuse as well as with kidnapping.” Greg took a deep breath in.

“Kidnapping?” Peter repeated, shying away from the word abuse and grasping the deceptively safer looking rope.

Wordlessly Greg held out the copy of the missing person’s report for Jeremy Smith.

“We’re still waiting for official DNA results,” Greg said quietly as Peter accepted the paper with trembling hands, “but they’ve both confessed and Michael Carson is exercising his right to silence at his attorney’s recommendation. It appears he took you from your home while your Bearer was inside, presumably on the hopeful assumption you’d be an Omega when you grew up. That’s what Thomas and Sharon are claiming.”

“No.” Peter whispered, eyes wide.

“It also explains why they became so aggressive when you hit puberty.” Greg continued.

“No, no, no, this isn’t, no.” Peter was trembling viciously. “No.”

“I’m-”

“No!” He yelled. “I’m, it’s not, I’m Peter. My name is… they’re my…”

He started hyperventilating, sending Sally running for assistance from the nurse while Greg attempted to make him calm down and breathe before being bodily removed by an orderly at the command of the irate nurse Sally had summoned.

“That didn’t go well.” Sally sighed.

“Nope.” Greg pulled out his phone. “And I’m sure neither will this. Daniel? Yeah, DI Lestrade… Are you able to- on your way? Where abouts – oh, I see you.”

Greg hung up and waved at the figure making its way down the hall. By the time Daniel was close enough to make out the confusion on his face, he was close enough to read the guilt on Greg’s and see the frantic shuffle inside the room as the nurses attempted to stabilise Peter before he went into Subdrop. With a piercing glare he breezed past them to get to his Sub.

Not five minutes later the same orderly deposited Daniel firmly outside and shut the door in his face.

“What did you ask him?” Daniel yelled furiously. The tension in his muscles was palpable. “How dare you while I’m not here!”

“We didn’t ask him anything.”

Greg didn’t bother pointing out that Daniel had no right even as Peter’s Dom to insist on being present. The Sub liberation reforms of the 60’s had abolished the requirement for a Dominant guardian during all interviews with a Dominant officer, despite the claims at the time the guardian was necessary to stop the official abusing their position. The push for true equality had won out, so Alpha protectiveness or not, as a legal adult Peter could entertain Greg and Greg could question him without Daniel.

Besides, as far as Greg knew, despite how they were acting, Peter and Daniel weren’t in an official relationship of any kind and so boyfriend or no, Daniel was not Peter’s legal Dom.

Saying that to an Alpha reacting to his Sub’s very real distress would just start a brawl, so instead Greg handed over the report again.

Daniel snatched it with a growl, furiously flicking pages to find what in the stack of papers had upset his Sub. The page flicking stopped abruptly as the arrest report penetrated his haze and slowly resumed as he actually read the words in their cruelly innocent default typeface.

“Does this make it better or worse?” He asked in a subdued voice.

“Worse, I think, at least for now.” Greg took the file back from Daniel’s lax grip, handing it to Sally for the mean time. “It doesn’t change what happened, but now he probably feels he doesn’t know what’s going on either. It’s pulled the rug out from underneath him and he’s probably feeling a little lost right now.”

“So his name’s really Jeremy?” Daniel asked hesitantly.

His eyes were blown wide and pleading. Greg wanted to make it better for him, Alpha paternal instincts, but it wasn’t going to be that easy.

“It appears so.” He said cautiously. “At least on his real birth certificate. We’re still waiting on DNA, but the Carsons have confessed he’s not actually their kid. Once we talk to the Smiths we’ll have to confirm that relationship with a DNA check too, but it appears so.”

“What do I do?” Daniel asked. His eyes followed Greg’s uncertain gaze to Sally and he silently begged for answers. “He didn’t want me in there. I made it worse. How do I help, with, with this?”

Sally sighed and ran her hand through her hair.

“You wait.” She said warningly. “You let him deal how he needs to to start with, and you give him space. It’s his life that’s been faked and your instincts will just make it worse for both of you. You can’t protect him from this and it’ll drive you both nuts if you try.

“You can’t coddle him. He’s an adult who’s been kept under a Dom’s thumb for years. Let him come to you when he’s ready. Treat him like a kid, you’ll suffocate him without realising it and damage things between you permanently.”

“He’s not a-” Daniel protested.

“But he’s a Sub and an Omega and you want to protect him.” Sally met Daniel’s gaze to reinforce her point. “And you’ll end up treating him that way trying to look after him.”

Daniel’s mouth twisted in defiance before he nodded and concede the point.

“Be there, but don’t hover. And get a counsellor, for you not him. They can help you deal and guide you through helping him.” Sally finished.

Again Daniel’s jaw worked, glancing at Greg for support from an older and more experienced Alpha, but not getting it he folded.

“Fine.” It was grudging, but there.”

Another ten minutes passed before the no longer kindly nurse stomped back out of her patient’s room – ten minutes of awkward absolute silence. When the nurse Greg still hadn’t got a name for started yelling at all three of them for upsetting her patient – Greg would have traded the next ten minutes for the last without question. Well cowed and apologetic they were finally permitted back inside.

Peter was sitting sideways on his bed, arms resting on his legs, head in his hands. He glanced sideways as they walked in, returning his gaze quickly to the floor.

“What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be at class.” He accused, voice thick with emotion.

“Class was over.” Daniel replied lamely, taking a hesitant step forward.

“And the essay due Monday?” Peter asked scathingly.

“Ah, well.”

“Get out of here, Daniel.” The tone of voice was resigned, but firm with a touch of anger.

“But-”

“ _Go!_ ”

“Peter-”

“Shut up!” Peter yelled into the floor. “Just shut up and fuck off and leave me alone.”

He didn’t look up.

“O-kay.” Daniel struggled to keep the hurt off his face. “I’ll come back next week after it’s done, okay?”

Peter didn’t answer and with a last pained look Daniel nodded and left.

Greg waited politely in the doorway.

“Yes?” Peter’s voice was hard, flint and granite and sparks.

“Are you okay?” Greg started with.

A gasping sarcastic laugh burst out of Peter’s lips.

“Okay?” He was rocking side to side, rough fingernails biting into his arms. “I’ve just woken up from a coma and you’ve arrested my whole family, except they’re not my family and I don’t even know my own sodding name.”

“It’s hard, I know.” Greg took a couple of steps into the room, stopping when Peter’s body began to tense almost instantly. “Do you remember anything, anything at all?”

Peter shook his head, but didn’t say anything. It wasn’t a shocking response. According to the report he would have been just shy of his third birthday when he was taken.

“We’ll give you some time.” Even though he wasn’t looking, Greg smiled at Peter. “Just let us know if you need anything, ‘kay?”

Peter gave an abrupt, dismissive nod.

Holding back a sigh Greg turned to leave. Sally’s bleak expression reflected his own feelings and they shared a lip twitch and shoulder shrug. Unless Peter was willing to open up, there was nothing anyone could do for him without driving him further into his own head.

“Peter,” Greg did stop and turn at the door, not missing the way the kid flinched at the moniker, “don’t be too hard on Daniel. He really does just want to be there for you.”

“I just need some time alone, is that too much to ask for? Some space?” Peter growled back.

“Not at all.” With a flap of his hand Greg waved Sally out and they left.


	35. Chapter 35

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wednesday! To give you an idea how tired I was this morning, I spent half an hour on the way to work trying to remember whether or not I'd remembered to post the Wednesday chapter... at which point I realised it wasn't Thursday or Friday like I seemed to think and was in fact only just dawning Wednesday.
> 
> Further development of the Peter/Jeremy Carson saga and a little Sherlock and John fluff. I would highly recommend that at the relevant time (the image that Greg sends to John), you flip over to Livejournal and have a look at the picture of the cot that's there. Also, for those wondering, yes it was a hell of a long shot stealing Jeremy as a kid. He might have been guaranteed to be A/O, but from there the odds were not in his favour. I'm leaning towards spur of the moment opportunism. 
> 
> No particular warnings for this chapter.
> 
> URL for the Index:  
> http://melody-in-time.livejournal.com/15259.html

“So when are you going to tell the Smiths we found their son?”

It was almost five o’clock and Sally was greedily eyeing Greg’s chocolate bar. He shifted slightly to better protect his treat, just in case.

“Not until he’s had some time to get used to it.” He slurped up a couple of crumbs, ignoring her disgusted look.

“You don’t think they’ll complain when they find out we sat on the knowledge?”

It was a legitimate question.

“Probably. I’m officially waiting for the DNA results. It’s been seventeen years; they can wait ‘til the kid’s able to handle it.” Greg’s expression dared her to say otherwise.

Sally raised her hands in surrender.

“Just don’t get in any more trouble if Mulgrave wants to move forward, yeah. You don’t have to stick your neck out for all of them, you know.” She cautioned.

Greg grunted stubbornly.

“You’re going to stick your neck out aren’t you?” Sally sighed in exasperation. “Sometimes I don’t know why you don’t just hand Mulgrave an axe. It’d be quicker and cleaner.”

“You’re being melodramatic.” Greg sniffed dismissively.

“Yeah, and you’re Mulgrave’s favourite subordinate.” Sally roller her eyes and stood. “Come on, this deserves a drink. My shout.”

Greg pursed his mouth considering. On the one hand he really had been over indulging; on the other hand, Sally was shouting and there wasn’t anyone waiting at home.

“Come on, one drink.” Sally cajoled playfully.

“Fine.” Deciding Sally probably needed this more than she was letting on, Greg agreed. “Just one.”

~*~

“She’s cute. You should flirt with her.” Sally pointed at a young blonde Sub dressed in practical jeans and not so practical boots.

“Come off it. She’d be lucky to be half my age.” Greg laughed.

“You could do.” Sally brushed off his concerns with the blasé attitude of someone well and truly tipsy.”

“I’m old enough to be her father.” Greg shook his head.

“You’d have to have started young.” She snorted.

“I did.” Greg bantered back, grinning easily at her sharp look.

“Humph.” Sally turned back to scanning the crowd. “Fine, him. No collar, no bracelet, and way too old to be your kid.”

The next Sub was a brunette, shaggy hair artfully tousled into a vestige of control. He was dressed in arse hugging jeans and a blazer over his t-shirt. Seeing them looking in his direction, he sent back a flirtatious wink.

“See, you’re in!” Sally kicked him unsubtly under the table.

“Nah, he was looking at you.” Greg demurred. “Go say hi.”

“Definitely at you, Sir.” Sally raised her larger in a mock salute. “Go get him, Silver Fox.”

“What the?” Greg was glad he hadn’t had a mouthful of beer at that point. The way the air had rushed out his nose as he started, it was undeniable he would have snorted the beer instead.

Sally cocked her head mischievously, a puck-like glimmer in her eye.

“Go get him, Silver Fox.” She repeated gleefully. “That’s what they call you. You must know.”

“Who?” Greg asked in utter bewilderment.

“The constables and sergeants.” Her eyes were definitely twinkling.

He blinked twice in rapid succession. “Why?”

“Because you’re foxy.” Sally rolled her eyes at his continued lack of comprehension. “Good looking, hot, sexy, they want to violate your desk with-”

“Right, right.” Greg cut her off.

His blush must have been visible because Sally’s lips spread into a wide, slightly evil, grin.

“Oh yeah,” she continued. “You’re considered hot property, meow, woof, woof.”

“Oi, shut up.” His cheeks were flaming. If he was as red as he felt he’d do a tomato proud.

“Mmhmm, they just want to-”

“Donovan!” He protested.

Sally grinned, his embarrassed glare nothing against the alcoholic giddiness.

“It’s true.” If possible her smile grew even wider at his spluttering denials. “Dimmock’s had the hots for you for years. He refused to speak to me for six months when I made DS before him and was assigned to you. Probably why he was so desperate to make DI.”

“But,” Greg cast around wildly for something, anything, because that was just too strange to contemplate. “I’m old. Distinguished, there he called me distinguished. Old.”

“You’re the senior DI for major crimes.” Sally rolled her eyes. “What was he going to say? Whip me I’m yours? Throw me over your desk and beat me now, never mind the glass walls?”

Greg spluttered out more denials.

“How did you not know this? It’s common knowledge.“ Sally was looking at him in fascinated astonishment.

“Common for whom?” Greg protested.

“Everyone.” Sally continued to stare wide eyed. “You’re the Silver Fox. Everyone knows that. It’s part of the unofficial tour for new recruits, right after freaking them out in the murder museum by narrowly missing pouring water on them after the Acid Murderer exhibit. Everyone knows that. Do you deliberately bury your head in the sand or something?”

“No!” Greg denied shortly.

“Go talk to him.” Sally ignored the repeated protestations.

“I’m not going. You go talk to him.”

A throat was cleared politely to his right. Standing there was the Sub who’d caught them staring, artificially perfect teeth displayed in a wide flirty grin.

“Now what’s the chance of one of you fine Doms buying a Sub a drink?” He batted his eyelashes coyly.

“Um…” was the best Greg could manage.

Without taking her eyes off the stranger, Sally kicked him.

“Of course,” the brunette leant provocatively forward, “we could just skip the drinks and you could take me home. For sex, just in case that wasn’t clear.”

Sally kicked him again, guaranteeing Greg would have a massive bruise. In the wake of the positively wanton look the Sub was wearing, Greg imagined he looked like a startled animal staring at a hunter’s rifle.

“Both of you, maybe.” The rakish smile was transferred to Sally as he purred, “I’m open to positively anything.”

If Greg hadn’t been so wrong footed by the whole event he would have been laughing at how quickly Sally paled and back tracked. As it was he just collected his bruises as she kicked him over and over, slack jawed and dumb.

“Pity,” the Sub summoned a piece of paper from nowhere and dripped it in Greg’s startled palm in what was undoubtedly meant to be a coquettish look. “Next time you’re in the mood to share, just give me a call.” He slipped another noted into Sally’s pocket. “It’s so much fun to play with gay couples. They always know how to discipline a Sub, and I can be very bad.”

With the parting whisper he sauntered off into the crowd leaving them both gawking after him. Slowly they turned back to each other, eyes wide.

It was just so…

Sally’s face twitched and before he realised it Greg was bent in two, howling with laughter as Sally giggled drunkenly across from him.

“Oh my…” She couldn’t finish, tears rolling down her cheeks. “Oh God.”

“Indeed.” Greg managed a couple of breaths before collapsing back into helpless laughter.

He pushed the remains of his beer away. “Christ, right, that’s me. I’m done.”

“Sure you don’t want to…” She giggled again.

“I’m sure he’d be satisfied with just you.” Greg smiled charmingly, tipping his paper slip into the glass where it broke down into foam covered pulp at the bottom.

“God no.” Sally copied him. “Right, if my judgement’s that bad, definitely home time.”

“Agreed.” Greg stood and shrugged on his jacket.

“Share a cab?” Sally asked as they walked out into the refreshingly brisk air.

“Wrong way.” Greg shook his head. “I’m the other side of town now.”

“Mmm, and where is this new place of yours?” Sally flung out an arm, but the passing cab didn’t slow.

“Knightsbridge.” Greg used his footy whistle specially developed during his hooligan days to stop the next cab.

“Ooo la la, we are getting posh.” Sally grinned.

“Not my place.” Greg rolled his eyes and opened the door, gesturing her in. “See you Monday Donovan.”

“Uh huh. Knight in shining armour and a posh house in Knightsbridge. Sure this guy doesn’t swing both ways? I’ll have him if you won’t.” Sally clambered in.

“That’d make Sherlock your brother-in-law.” Greg shut the door on her indignant squark and thumped on the roof of the cab to say go.

Well worth it, he decided, flagging down the next available taxi. Well worth it.

* * *

_Saturday 21/5/11 8:00 am_

_To: Mycroft Holmes <_diklr_3496@whitehall.gov.uk _>_

_Subject: New Developments_

_Hi Mycroft,_

_Okay, I’d promised myself I wouldn’t email until you’d written back, but I do feel the need to pass this onto someone, and on-going investigation or not you’re a lot more legal than John. Probably don’t even count. Besides, I miss talking to you and messaging you. There, I said it, deal with it. Sentiment. Us lower creatures are affected by it, remember?_

_So turns out Peter Carson is actually Jeremy Smith. Kid went missing from his backyard seventeen years ago. How sick is that? Carson took him on the off chance he’d be an Omega so he could condition him to fit his little Alpha fantasy. You think you reach the bottom of humanity and then something always reminds you they can sink lower._

_You know, I only found out because I stayed late with Sally doing make-work so she wasn’t alone after Anderson. What if I hadn’t? What if I’d put that case to rest weeks ago like I should have? It’s just…_

_I dunno what to say. I really don’t. I think I’m still in some form of shock, even though it’s been a couple of days. Some kind of revulsion’s probably more accurate. Poor kid._

_He freaked out when I told him. Not surprised really. Not easy news to get on top of everything else I suppose. It’s just…_

_I’ll stop. I’m repeating myself and the thoughts aren’t making any sense anyway._

_Greg_

* * *

**Am I sexy?           9:10, 21 May**

**Are you drunk? JW            9:13, 21 May**

**No!         9:17, 21 May**

**Why?     9:17, 21 May**

**Because it’s more logical than your question? JW    9:23, 21 May**

**Leave logic to SH. Am I foxy?         9:25, 21 May**

**Ask an Omega, Beta, or Woman. Basically, anyone not me. JW         9:26, 21 May**

**Why? JW               9:27, 21 May**

**Sally said I am     9:29, 21 May**

**Sally? Donovan? JW          9:31, 21 May**

**She said I was called the Silver Fox              9:33, 21 May**

**Q answered? JW                                9:35, 21 May**

**Raised Q               9:36, 21 May**

**Not gay. Ask SH or Mrs H JW         9:38, 21 May**

**Recommend SH. Mrs H will tell you. In detail. Over sponge cake. JW                9:43, 21 May**

**You are no help   9:44, 21 May**

* * *

_Sunday 22/5/11 11:13 am_

_To: Gregory Lestrade <_uhbve_3483@secure.co.uk>

_Subject: Re: New Developments_

_Gregory,_

_That certainly is a dramatic twist for your case. Worthy of one of your television dramas rather than real life, that is certain. It is often most disturbing to the people involved when life resembles things they view on the small screen without batting an eye lid. Art is no longer meant to imitate life and so it is all the more shocking when it inadvertently does._

_Although it may be some time before the boy is able to say it himself, I’m sure your dedication will mean a considerable amount to him one day. I would caution you not to expect gratitude at any proximal occasion, however. Although you have removed him from their influence, you have also destroyed his family and self-image. He will thank you for neither._

_I am gratified to see Sally Donovan is holding up well. She seems determined to find you a partner of some sort, presumably as salve to her own wounds. My best wishes for her continued recovery, however please do tell her I’m unlikely to be interested in a female Dom at any foreseeable time in the future._

_Mycroft_

* * *

_Sunday 22/5/11 12:00 pm_

_To: Mycroft Holmes <_diklr_3496@whitehall.gov.uk _>_

_Subject: Still with the CCTV_

_A reply! How are you? Still getting reports back on me? I’m flattered. Kinda figured you stopped bothering to have me followed months ago, you know, cause of things. Probably says something about my mental health that I’m please to find out I’m still being stalked by the government, but hey._

_Have you finished your first set of conferences? Don’t worry, I won’t ask where, but I did notice on the news that a number of EU leaders were gathering in Switzerland. Just saying._

_Why would he be upset? They stole him and abused him his whole life. It would have been much worse soon. I mean, yes, I’ve arrested them, but they weren’t his family and they were trying, going, to force breed him. That’s torture, John said. Now he’s got an Alpha who loves him and can choose his own life away from their abusive influence. Surely that’s better?_

_So, since I actually have you on email, the nursery? Any idea which room to use? I’m guessing the brown room given its location, but wanted to get your ideas before doing anything._

_Gregory_

* * *

_Sunday 22/5/11 12:10 pm_

_To: Gregory Lestrade <_uhbve_3483@secure.co.uk>

_Subject: Not Necessary_

_Gregory,_

_Why on Earth are you asking about the nursery?_

_Mycroft_

* * *

_Sunday 22/5/11 12:15 pm_

_To: Mycroft Holmes <diklr_3496@whitehall.gov.uk>_

_Subject: Yes it is_

_My,_

_Um, because you’re due in three and a half months and we haven’t even worked out where the baby will sleep._

_G_

* * *

_Sunday 22/5/11 12:17 pm_

_To: Gregory Lestrade <uhbve_3483@secure.co.uk>_

_Subject: Re: Yes it is_

_Gregory,_

_I’ll have it arranged. Don’t worry._

_Mycroft_

* * *

_Sunday 22/5/11 12:20 pm_

_To: Mycroft Holmes <diklr_3496@whitehall.gov.uk>_

_Subject: Re:Re: Yes it is_

_My,_

_Oh no, you don’t. Firstly because I want to do it, and secondly, because I’m going crazy with nothing to do in my free time. So no ordering Anthea to do anything._

_Don’t think I’ve forgotten about the name issue, by the way._

_Now, Brown Room?_

_Greg_

* * *

_Sunday 22/5/11 12:22 pm_

_To: Mycroft Holmes <diklr_3496@whitehall.gov.uk>_

_Subject: Re:Re: Yes it is_

_Although, if you could ask Anthea how I get it done without, um, ‘security concerns’ that’d be good._

_G_

* * *

**He’s happy for you to redo the Brown Room on two conditions. 1. The cot will be arriving from the main estate next Saturday. It must be included as it is a family heirloom. 2. You will shop according to his budget, not yours, and send the list to me. I will arrange purchase and delivery. A.                8:30, 23 May**

**You can reach me at this number or the email address, now added to your address book. A     8:31, 23 May**

**Is that Mycroft speak for I’m a snob and refuse to own things from Mothercare?          8:34, 23 May**

**Yes. I would recommend you start at Harrods. Take Dr Watson with you as cover. A 8:35, 23 May**

**You want me to do what on Saturday? JW 13:00, 24 May**

**Please John. I’ll owe you big time  13:05, 24 May**

**Seriously? JW      13:07, 24 May**

**I’ll find SH 3 good cold cases           13:11, 24 May**

**Fine! JW                                13:13, 24 May**

**SH wants to come. JW     11:02, 25 May**

**What?    11:03, 25 May**

**Shopping. JW      11:05, 25 May**

**Yeah, I guessed. Why?     11:11, 25 May**

**Fine, if he must. But if he gets me kicked out of Harrods I’ll take back the cases!          11:20, 25 May**

* * *

“Hello, Detective Inspector Lestrade speaking.”

“Inspector Lestrade? It’s Daniel Hill.”

“Daniel, hi, everything okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, it’s fine, it’s all… f-fine. I just, um, I just…”

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. Perfectly…fine.”

“How’s Peter?”

“He’s fine, I guess. He’s… fine.”

“I’m about to go grab lunch near Charing Cross if you’re not in class.”

“Uh, yeah, that’d be good. Thanks.”

~*~

“Here.” Greg pushed a cup of coffee into Daniel’s limp hand. “You look like you need it.”

Daniel blinked a few times before his brain reconnected and he accepted the cup.

“Thanks.” He said quietly, taking a long drink.

“Come on. We can go sit down near the embankment.” Greg started walking, unwrapping his baguette as they walked. He didn’t think he’d get much time to eat it once they got there.

Daniel didn’t look good. The dark smudges under his eyes added the only colour to his otherwise sallow skin, but not in a good way. Despite the faint traces of sun kissed tan over his cheeks, Daniel appeared faded and grey. His eyes were dim and tired, but not the tired that could be cured by sleep. His hair was clean, scrupulously so, but lank, lying limply around his face as if it hadn’t been washed in days.

He slumped onto the bench Greg chose with a half-hearted thump, as if even letting himself completely collapse was too much effort.

Greg tucked the remaining three quarters of his lunch into its wrapper.

“So how’s university?” He asked.

Daniel shrugged. The move was despondent, more sulky teenager than mid-twenties Masters student.

“Okay, I guess.” Daniel fiddled with the heat ring around the coffee cup.

“And how are you going?”

Pigeons breezed overhead in a startled flock, swooping and swirling until they converged on an abandoned chip packet, picking at the shiny foil.

“Fine. I’m fine.”

“You know what fine stands for, yeah? Freaked out, insecure-”

“Neurotic and emotional.” Daniel’s voice almost had a hint of life. “Yeah, okay, right.”

He took a deep breath, staring out over the path. “Guess I’m still fine.”

“Peter?” Greg asked, trying to instil as much understanding into his voice as possible.

“Yeah.” Daniel agreed

He sat, hand loose against his jeans. Anything else, a clenched fist, entwined fingers, pinched thumbs, would require more effort than Daniel seemed to have left in him.

“I’m sorry.” He said suddenly. “This isn’t your job, you don’t need to stay.”

“Hey, hey, it’s okay.” Greg gave him a sympathetic smile. “Though I should warn you I probably can’t help much. Donovan’s the one with half a psychology degree. I’m just a career copper.”

“Why only half?” Daniel asked.

“Didn’t say.” Greg shrugged. “You learn not to ask questions like that when people leave university to join the force.”

“Sorry.” Daniel looked down at his hand.

“Hey, it’s fine.” Greg squeezed Daniel’s shoulder, keeping the contact too brief to arouse instinct yet long enough he hoped to offer a measure of comfort.

“I just don’t know what to do.” The words flowed smoothly from Daniel’s lips. He had no resistance left once he started. “He won’t listen to me, he won’t talk to me, he won’t even see me. I’ve tried to go back to the hospital and he won’t even see me.”

“It’s hard, but you’ll need to give him space.”

“I know, I know, it’s just, he won’t even let me into his room, and the nurses won’t tell me anything about how he’s going, and the last time I saw him…” Daniel’s words trailed off, a shaking hand raised to press against his lips.

“You had a fight.” Greg finished for him.

“I just don’t understand. He’s free. He’s finally free and they’re gone and they can’t hurt him anymore and all he did is yell at me more and tell me I just didn’t get it.”

_I would caution you…_

Greg sighed. Of course Mycroft had been right. He was rarely wrong when it came to other people’s emotions, far too used to manipulating them in his line of work. It was only his own Greg’s omniscient love had trouble with.

“They were his family, Daniel.” Greg felt a sympathetic wave of fatigue wash over him, the kind sourced in resignation. “It doesn’t matter what they did to him or how we think he should feel. They were his family and he loved them.”

“But they weren’t his family! They abducted him.” Daniel protested. “They made his life hell.”

“And if someone told you you’d been taken from your parents when you were a baby, right now, who’d your dad be? Your mum? Doesn’t matter about genetics, right now the Carsons are his family.”

Greg could remember the mixed emotions on Peter’s face when Greg had confirmed they’d arrested his uncle. It hadn’t been the visage of a freed victim, but the upset face of a loving nephew.

“What, like Stockholm syndrome?” Daniel asked. He looked vaguely fearful as he struggled to understand, possibly afraid he never would.

“They had him for seventeen years, Daniel. They raised him, taught him to read and kick a ball. I don’t think it can be easily filed away as Stockholm syndrome.”

“Then what?”

“Love.” Greg’s lips curled into a hopeless smile. “He loves them, as simple and complex as that is.”

“It’s not right.” Daniel stubbornly stuck to his guns. “They abused him.”

“That’s a very Alpha view, Daniel. I agree, it’s wrong, but you’re seeing it from the view of an Alpha Dom with an Omega to protect, not as a person, whoever they are, who has had everything taken away.” Greg trailed off to a whisper as he tried to do as he was advising and put himself in Peter’s place.

It was almost distressingly easy. His family had never come even close to abuse, but they’d never really been on comfortable, easy terms either. Even so, to be told they had all been arrested and taken away rather than him having the option to walk out like he had would have hurt. Being told he wasn’t one of them at all, even by the slender margin he had been included, would have been soul destroying. He could almost feel the devastation being rootless, completely separated from all grounding attachments would be.

“No, it’s no-”

“Daniel,” Greg interrupted, tone forcing the young Alpha to look up and meet his eyes. “What’s his name?”

“Peter.” Daniel seemed bewildered by the question.

“Not according to what he’s now been told. Who is Jeremy? Do you know?” Greg broke eye contact, staring over the open space. “Peter doesn’t know.”

“They’re the same person.” Daniel insisted.

“Don’t think it’s that simple for him. His whole life is a lie. He probably doesn’t feel like he knows who Peter is, let alone Jeremy.”

“No, I guess not.” Daniel worried at his lip. “Does it matter? He _is_ the same. His name doesn’t define him.”

“It matters to him.” Greg cautioned. “Be careful quoting Shakespeare.”

“What do I do?”

Greg leant back with a creak of wooden bench, letting the wind ruffle the short strands of his hair.

“Give him time and support.” He said finally. “That means sympathising about his loss, whether you see it as one or not. He hasn’t been out of his coma for long. He’s probably having trouble not being overwhelmed with everything Try not to smother him and for God’s sake don’t flunk your degree.”

“But he won’t see me. How do I fix this?”

The look on Daniel’s face was just short of devotion, as if he truly believed Greg had all the answers and could fix it for him. He wasn’t sure what he’d done to deserve such faith, but it made Greg more than a little uncomfortable given he couldn’t get anything about his own relationship working right. Even this insight had come from Mycroft. He really wasn’t qualified to be delivering relationship advice.

He also couldn’t let the kid down.

“I gave Peter back his mobile. Try texting, _texting not calling_ , him an apology and say you understand and are there if he needs you. Then wait for him to text you back and don’t try again until he does.” Seeing the pleading look on Daniel’s face he amended, “or until it’s been at least a week.”

“And that, you think…?”

The light was back in Daniel’s eyes, the spark in his voice and bounce in his muscles. Greg hoped he wasn’t screwing this up even more.

“It’s a start.” He allowed. “We’ll have to see. Don’t be too hopeful.”

Daniel tried to school his features into calm agreement and failed.

* * *

_Sunday 22/5/11 12:17 pm_

_To: Gregory Lestrade <uhbve_3483@secure.co.uk>_

_Subject: Re:_

_Gregory,_

_From the sound of your last email you have managed to well and truly adopt these two youngsters of yours, though to use the term in relation to Master Hill may be a slight exaggeration. You and your strays!_

_I am aware I cannot say too much as no one can be as thankful for your habit of collecting strangers as I can. I know full well where Sherlock would be without your penchant for aiding those in need, whether they want it or not, but I will ask you to be careful and not risk too much, especially at work. I am sure Sally Donovan will echo my sentiments._

_I agree: the dresser and the couch should stay. Anthea will instruct the labourers transporting the cot to move the bed and the desk to the attic. No, to answer your other question, my sensibilities will not be offended if the cot does not match the room’s furniture. I have no wish to completely redo the décor and to have the nursery another floor up would be impractical. From memory, however, there should be no such problem. We should be so fortunate._

_I can’t say much about…_

_… and must conclude your taste in literature is as poor as ever. Popular fiction! Next you’ll be encouraging me to read Twilight!_

_Yours,_

_Mycroft_

* * *

“Remind me again why I’m here?” John stopped next to Greg, head on such an angle Sherlock was still in sight.

“Because Holmes babies aren’t dressed from Primark.” Greg replied, eyes sweeping the store guide to try and find baby goods.

The entrance to Harrods was full of tourists come to gawp at the sight of London’s most famous department store. It helped Greg feel less out of place in his cheap jeans.

“Doesn’t explain why I’m here.” John grumbled. “Sherlock!”

Sherlock was scanning the crowd, picking out all the little details he felt relevant, and was intently studying a well-dressed Sub who was starting to look unnerved by the stranger apparently fixated on him. At John’s admonishment Sherlock huffed and strolled past both of them.

“It’s this way.” He breezed through the crowd, the two Alphas struggling to follow.

The array of newborn and nursery items momentarily stumped Greg, but with a determined look he threw himself into the fray, examining outfits and running cautious fingertips over material. John, being the amazing friend he was, gamely threw himself in next to Greg with the kind of grim determination better suited to a war zone. Sherlock, being the best dressed and most obviously affluent of the three of them, drew the attention of the sales staff, baring the one keeping a suspicious eye on the items Greg and John were pawing over. Greg wasn’t sure whether it was some deliberate plan on Sherlock’s behalf or he was just a more visible sales target, but he appreciated not being bothered while he was looking nonetheless.

There was so much… stuff. He really couldn’t think of a better way to describe most of it. Did babies really need all this?

The sales assistants dispersed in a flurry of eager feet, apparently deciding no matter how well dressed he was Sherlock wasn’t worth dealing with to try and get a sale. The Omega gestured to a bored looking assistant refolding onsies who hadn’t hurried over and began flinging questions at him, answered in a slow, uninterested drawl.

“This is nice.” John stroked a pale blue blanket.

In the background Sherlock could be heard interrogating the sales assistant about the flammability of various outfits and the testing they’d been subjected to.

“It is.” Greg agreed, running a finger over the weave. It was so soft the temptation to bury his hand in it was almost overwhelming. He checked the price. “It’s also over £200.”

“What?” John yelped, snatching his hand back. The shop assistant and Sherlock sent him twin disdainful glares.

“Cashmere.” Greg read on, “Certainly explains the, uh, warning I got. £209 for a baby blanket.”

He’d never consider spending that on a blanket. Mycroft wouldn’t consider anything less worthwhile, the snob.

“They really do work on a different scale, don’t they?” John mumbled. He caught sight of Sherlock in the corner of his eye at the register. “Sherlock, what are you doing?”

“Experimenting.” The Omega replied with a delicate yet dismissive sniff. “These garments haven’t been thoroughly tested for acid resistance and I sincerely doubt you’ll let me undertake the required procedures while I’m pregnant. When our child arrives I refuse to dress him in clothing with unknown safety parameters.”

He handed over his credit card, and then seemed to consider his selection. While the other items were scanned Sherlock strolled over and reached past the two startled Alphas to select one of the pale blue blankets they’d been admiring and added it to his pile. It was bagged with the rest of his purchases.

“Come on.” Sherlock swept imperiously away, leaving the bags to be collected by John and Greg. “We still have to go to Bond St and Saville Row.”

“Saville Row?” John’s step faltered before he hurried forward. “Why Saville Row for baby gear?”

“If I’m going to suffer through this little expedition of yours at least I’m going to fix some of your appalling wardrobe choices. Our son will inherit many things from you John Hamish Watson, but your penchant for bad jumpers and old jeans will not be one of them.” Sherlock’s ever present coat swirled in its mysterious way as he swept out the door.

“Suffer through…? You pestered _me_ into this.” John fumed after him, stomping after his Sub.

Greg followed after and tried very hard not to laugh.

* * *

**Thanks for today                18:05, 28 May**

**And it really is a nice jumper.         18:07, 28 May**

**Very soft               18:21, 28 May**

**Brings out your eyes         18:23, 28 May**

**I hate you JW      18:25, 28 May**

**You’re not going to believe this. You have to come and see  8:01, 29 May**

**I’m still not talking to you JW         8:03, 29 May**

**Hey, it was all SH mate!  8:05, 29 May**

**Still not speaking to you JW            8:06, 29 May**

**I liked those jeans and that was hand knitted jumper! JW     8:07, 29 May**

**Mum or Grandma?             8:08, 29 May**

**Christmas present from Ex’s mum JW         8:11, 29 May**

**No wonder he got rid of it                8:13, 29 May**

**He poured acid on it when we got home JW               8:17, 29 May**

**In his defence, he bought you a very nice expensive replacement first                              8:23, 29 May**

**Why am I defending him? Srsly, John, you have to come see this       8:25, 29 May**

**NO JW   8:26, 29 May**

**Sending image… Image Sent         8:33, 29 May**

**What is that? JW                8:34, 29 May**

**Apparently the Holmes ancestral cot          8:36, 29 May**

**Be there in half JW             8:37, 29 May**

* * *

The doorbell rang just as Greg was finishing his email to Mycroft letting him know that the cot had been delivered by his mysterious lackeys and telling him all about Sherlock’s rampage through John’s clothes. Greg had no doubt once John had taken stock he’d discover the only items gone were the ones he’d been given by people not Sherlock or his family. In his own way, Sherlock was securing his territory and proving he could do better.

He must have been itching to do it for over a year.

John stood in the doorway, hands buried deep in the pockets of his lightweight jacket. Underneath the deep forest green of one of his new jumpers could be seen poking out.

Greg smirked and moved aside. John stalked past into the entry.

“Jacket?” He held out a hand for the item.

John handed over the coat and the jumper, neither of them necessary inside the house, eyes darting around the hallway.

“Never really looked around have you?” Greg made an executive decision to lay the jumper flat across the umbrella stand rather than risk his neck if Sherlock found it stretched out of shape.

“No, not really.” John turned in a loose circle, staring at the ceiling rose.

“Do you want the full tour?” Greg asked. “It’s a crazy house.”

Greg’s tour was shorter and less historical than Mycroft’s had been. He only skipped two rooms: Mycroft’s and Sherlock’s. Mycroft’s because sort of family or not he didn’t want John’s Alpha scent polluting what was left of Mycroft’s, and Sherlock’s because “When you see that I’d recommend he’s here and I’m miles away.”

They finished up in the brown room, staring at the Victorian monstrosity now standing where the bed had been.

“Well…” John trailed off.

“Yeah…” Greg agreed.

“Think they both used that?”

“Yeah…”

They abandoned the nursery for the pool room.

~*~

“Have you spoken to the Smith’s yet, Lestrade?” Mulgrave stuck his head around Greg’s door and raised a questioning eyebrow.

“Uh, not yet, Sir.” Greg tried to swallow his mouthful of coffee and answer at the same time. He managed, but it scalded he throat as it went down.

“Why not?” Mulgrave frowned. “It’s been almost a week.”

“Still waiting on DNA, Sir. Just in case, given everything.”

Greg had timed his trip to deliver the samples for when the poor harried forensics officer had had three other detectives yelling at him about their samples and why they had priority. He’d happily allowed his to be designated the lowest on the stack. Mollified the other detectives had gone back to arguing among themselves and Greg had slipped out.

Mulgrave’s scowl deepened, but he didn’t disagree. “How much longer do they think?”

“Another week, unless they get a rush job?” Greg hazarded a guess.

“Tell them they have until Friday. We’re talking to the Smiths on Monday, with or without DNA.” Mulgrave turned to leave.

“Uh, we, Sir?” Greg asked.

“Yes, Inspector, we.” Mulgrave’s face dared Greg to challenge him.

“I’ll let you know what they say.” Greg responded instead.

Mulgrave nodded and left. Greg sighed and pencilled in another visit to the hospital Friday. Hopefully two weeks would have been enough.

* * *

_Thursday 2/6/11 7:20 pm_

_To: Mycroft Holmes <diklr_3496@whitehall.gov.uk>_

_Subject:_

_My,_

_I’ve sent the first list of stuff to Anthea to buy. I’ve gotta say I’m not sure what most of it is for or how to use it, but we’ll have it if it’s important. All that’s left is clothing, toys and decorations, which I’m mostly filing under toys. Sherlock slipped me the results from his tests at work today, over a dead body as usual. Couldn’t understand the numbers, but John made him give me a verbal summary when I said as much. Upshot is baby clothes aren’t acid resistant. Not I think a huge concern for us. A more useful set of experiments would have been which of these garments will fall apart first in the wash, or which one is going to dye your whites pink, but I didn’t think John’d appreciate that and Sherlock had already moved on to study a patch of ground that looked the same as every other patch of ground, but was apparently important._

_So, nursery is almost done. What else do we need to get sorted? Other than his name I mean. (List of suggestions so far attached Please read and respond.) You’re handling the legal stuff, yeah? Adoption papers and all that?_

_Forensics is coughing up the DNA results tomorrow. They’ve been sitting on them a couple of days as a favour. Negative, as expected. Hope the kid’s ready. Anything to say? You were helpfully insightful last time and I’d rather not make things worse for him tomorrow._

_Love,_

_Greg_

* * *

_Thursday 2/6/11 9:17 pm_

_To: Gregory Lestrade <uhbve_3483@secure.co.uk>_

_Subject: Re:_

_Gregory,_

_I don’t think Peter will be ready for a long time, if ever. It’s a big shock, especially being forced to accept it so soon after being forced to acknowledge the fact that the man he knew as his uncle was abusing him. You said before Donovan thought he was trying to still feel normal, justify bits of his childhood? This has taken away every shred of normality he was holding onto. As you say, sadly you can’t delay any more. Anything further is now up to Peter himself._

_For the nursery, …_

_Mycroft_

* * *

_Thursday 2/6/11 9:33 pm_

_To: Mycroft Holmes <diklr_3496@whitehall.gov.uk>_

_Subject:_

_You didn’t even look at the list of names, did you?_

_G_

* * *

Peter was lying on the hospital bed when they arrived, knees tucked up to his chest as he stared listlessly at the wall. Greg knocked, but he didn’t stir from his foetal position to respond so they cautiously let themselves in.

Daniel wasn’t there and the chair had been moved from the bedside and stored neatly against the wall out of the way. It suggested that it wasn’t getting much, if any, use and that visitors were still not welcome.

“Morning.” Greg greeted the still body. “Well, almost afternoon, I suppose.”

Peter lay unresponsive, not so much as twitching. If he hadn’t been in a hospital Greg would have been worried about Subdrop, but after last week the kid would have been on a watch list and no one was panicking at the moment.

“Seem to be making a habit of Fridays, euh?” He tried.

When there was still no acknowledgement Greg was even there, he sighed and fetched the chair, dragging it close. Sally hung back in the doorway, farther than at his shoulder like usual to try and give Peter space.

“Hey,” Greg sat hands clasped as he leant forward, elbows on knees, to talk to Peter’s back. “I know you can hear me. I had hoped to give you more time, but we’ve run out so I need to speak to you. You can just listen, if you want, but you need to know what’s gonna happen.”

He paused, waiting for any sign his words were being heeded, but getting none soldiered on.

“The DNA results were handed back today. Thomas Carson is not your Sire.” The body on the bed seemed to curl a little tighter. “That doesn’t guarantee you’re Jeremy Smith, but it’s almost a sure thing. My DCI wants to tell the Smiths we might have found their missing son on Monday. I was able to put him off until the paternity results were back, but it’s full steam ahead now.

They’ll probably want to see you. I’ll try and delay them until you’re ready, but again once DNA confirms paternity I won’t be able to hold them back, if I can even get you that long. And I’m sorry kid, but with all this I have trouble imagining there won’t be media. Again, they’ll be kept out of here and I’ll try and prevent them finding out anything beyond that you were kidnapped, but you may need to be prepared, especially as court documents are open to the public.”

Peter continued to stare blankly at the wall.

“Call me if you have any questions. I’ll put my card here, with your phone, yeah? And I know it’s hard, but you need to think of someone to talk to, someone you can trust going forward. Not necessarily Daniel or another Dom,” he added as Peter stiffened, “but you’ll need someone to lean on. A friend. Maybe call Sam, yeah?”

Peter didn’t nod, but he did relax slightly.

“I’ll come back on Monday and update you, ‘kay?” Greg stood. “My personal mobile’s written on the back so if you have questions, anything you want me to say to them, anything at all, just call or text.”

Greg carefully replaced the chair and followed Sally out. She didn’t bother waiting for a signal, heading straight for the nurse’s station. Greg followed slowly after.

“What’s his status?” Sally asked. She didn’t clarify whose status was relevant, but pinned by her glare the nurse didn’t pretend to misunderstand.

“Are you… family?” He asked hesitantly. “Only…”

“Inspector.” Susan Graylyn hurried over. “I’m sorry I missed you last week.”

“Nurse Graylyn.” Greg held out his hand and shook hers with relief. “We’re here to check up on Peter after… last week.”

“I thought you’d be by at some point.” She sighed. “Poor kid.”

“How is he? Really?” Greg leant on the counter.

The Beta nurse looked like protesting, but left without a word when Susan pressed a file into his hands.

“Not good.” She admitted. “You’ve seen him, I assume. He’s been one step away from Subdrop all week. Tipped over a few times and had to be stabilised. Mostly he’s just been lying there.”

“Has anyone spoken to him? A psychiatrist, counsellor?”

“Spoken at him, sure.” Susan sighed. “No response. He just stays as blank as a board while they clamour on at him. The only one who got a reaction was that young lad of his, but it wasn’t a very good one.”

“Yeah,” Greg winced, “I heard.”

“Such a pity, he was a nice young lad. Anyway, the doctors were thinking of sending him home soon, but now with this... It might be different if there was a Dom at home to help, but I suppose that’s part of the problem, isn’t it?”

“What’s going to happen for him?” Greg asked. “More counselling?”

“Attempts, yes.” Susan nodded “He’s borderline being committed to a facility to be honest. If this funk goes on much longer they might send him over anyway for the more specialised care, but I really don’t think it’s what he needs.”

“What do you think he needs?” Greg asked curiously.

“Lord knows, but I doubt that’s it.” She sighed. “Time, his Dom and a miracle would be a good start.”

“I’ll be back on Monday.” They shared a sympathetic smile.

“I’ll be on shift. If I’m not at the station call my mobile, I might not be in yet. The other nurses have started to tighten up on visitors since he… well, you might not get in.” She scrawled on the back of a business card, handing one to Sally and one to Greg.

“Thanks.” Greg sighed. “See you Monday.”

* * *

**Advice for dealing with traumatised Sub?  19:23, 3 June**

**Traumatised how? JW      19:24, 3 June**

**Remember that kid I told you about?           19:26, 3 June**

**Yeah JW                19:26, 3 June**

**Turns out was kidnapped 17 yrs ago             19:30, 3 June**

**Ah. Didn’t go well? JW      19:32, 3 June**

**No. Verging on SD for last wk. Refuses to see Dom. Are fighting. 100% voluntarily non-responsive        19:35, 3 June**

**He’s in hospital still, yeah? JW       19:37, 3 June**

**Yes         19:38, 3 June**

**And doctors can’t help? JW             19:40, 3 June**

**Ignoring everyone. Keeping out of SD appears to be all can manage 19:41, 3 June**

**So why asking me? JW     19:42, 3 June**

“Cause I’ve run out of delay and I have to tell his birth parents we’ve found their long lost son on Monday and he needs to be better _now_ so he can deal with them.”

“Sorry, mate, depression takes time. Can’t snap your fingers and have it go away.”

“You think he’s depressed?”

“No, I think his life is smiles and rainbows.”

“Ha ha, smart arse.”

“I’m not saying he’s clinically depressed, it’s not my speciality, but I’m not surprised he’s upset.”

“No one is. Would his Dom help?”

“Not fighting always helps. Will it miraculously fix things? No.”

“Yeah, thanks. Not what I wanted to hear.”

“Sorry, Greg. Want to watch the match tomorrow?

“Yeah, why not. Yours or mine?”

“Um, Baker St I think.”

“Is this a territory thing?”

“Kinda, yeah.”

“Fine. See you then. Oh, quickly. The initials on the texts?”

“Sherlock. I don’t know what he did in the settings.”

“Thought so. Bye.”

* * *

_Friday 3/6/11 11:51 pm_

_To: Gregory Lestrade <uhbve_3483@secure.co.uk>_

_Subject: Re:_

_Gregory,_

_It’s just a name. It’s not like Abernathy’s a bad choice._

_If it’s possible are you able to ask Sherlock to…_

_Mycroft_

* * *

_Saturday 4/6/11 10:46 am_

_To: Mycroft Holmes <diklr_3496@whitehall.gov.uk>_

_Subject:_

_It’s not just a name, Mycroft. It’s our_ son’s _name, and it’s not a choice at all, good or bad. We’ve been told from on high that is what you will call him. I’m happy with choosing something a bit out there, but we choose, us. Please My, read the list. It’s important. Not you, not me, not Mummy, us, together._

_Yeah, I’ll talk to your brother. If John kills me for …_

_We could always name him Sherlock. That’d be amusing._

_Greg_


	36. Chapter 36

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back. Almost to the end! 
> 
> No real chapter warnings, but on the off chance that anyone has had a family member abducted, then this one might stir some things up. I've tried to focus on how it's not always easy, even if you get them back.

“You coming with us for this?” Greg tapped lightly on the backboard of Sally’s desk to get her attention.

“No, going to go talk to the Shaendal’s. She sighed. “Tell them I can’t prove it, but as far as we know her killer is going to goal on drugs charges.”

“Sure? I can go with you when we get back?” Greg offered.

They’d decided Friday that unless any new leads turned up in relation to Juniae’s murder or Bob’s location Sally’s focus needed to be on the new more active cases they had coming in. Neither of them liked it, but there were no more leads. Greg had no doubt the case would stay in Sally’s bottom drawer to be poured over in her spare time like so many of his cases were in his, but for now all that could be done was to tell her family what they knew.

“No, it’s fine.” She smiled up at him, only slightly forced. “You’re looking smart.”

Knowing what the day had in store Greg had taken the time to dig out his good suit and shave properly that morning. He was wearing a tie, correctly knotted and all.

“Yeah, well.” He saw Mulgrave emerge from his office. “That’s me up. Better go.”

“Lestrade.” Sally called after him, half risen out of her chair. He wheeled around to hear what she had to say. “Just don’t give him a reason, yeah? Don’t stick your neck out over this, promise?”

Greg threw her a mock salute and hurried over to Mulgrave.

It was a long drive to Cambridge.

After their son’s disappearance the Smiths had moved several times, first to Leeds, then Edinburgh, and now to Cambridge. It was a nice house, well-tended with the detritus of use scattered over its yard: a football, a rugby ball, a little toy truck half buried in the mud. Greg had to do a little skip step over an abandoned tennis racket dropped on the path.

The doorbell reverberated through the house for some minutes before the pounding of young feet could be heard converging on the door. Dual high pitched giggles were interrupted by an adult’s rather harried “Just a moment”, and a change of direction of the feet away from their location in an attempt to flee.

It was closer to five minutes before the door was opened. The collar and tag around his neck suggested this was Todd Smith, Peter’s probable Bearer. There was a certain resemblance, despite Todd’s blonde colouring, something along the jaw and the shape of the nose and eyes.

“Todd Smith?” Mulgrave asked.

“Yes, who are – hush, sweetie, I’m busy.” The youngster behind the child gate was kicking up a fuss, watched wide eyed by the toddler next to him.

“DCI Mulgrave, this is DI Lestrade.” They both held out their IDs and watched Todd pale. “Is your partner at home?”

“No, he’s at the college.” Behind him the toddler decided his older brother had the right idea of it and began complaining at the top of his lungs.

“Nothing’s happened, Mr Smith.” Greg broke in quickly, unable to watch the needless stress on the Omega’s face any longer than he had to. “There’s no trouble. We just wanted to speak to you and your Dom if possible.”

“Thank God. Might I ask what about?” He waved his hand vaguely at the children and the older one went quiet understanding that something was going on, but the younger continued to yell with a cheeky smile on his face.

“When are you expecting him back?” Mugrave politely ignored Todd’s question.

“He has class until two, but-”

“If you could call him and have him come home straight after that it would be perfect. We’ll come back around two thirty.” Mulgrave nodded good bye and started to walk back down the path.

Bloody Beta Doms, Greg thought furiously. All the arrogant need to run rampant over people and none of the protective instincts to balance.

“If you don’t mind.” He smiled charmingly. “Some information has come to light is all and we really would prefer to discuss it with both of you at once.”

“I’ll give him a call.” Todd glanced behind him at the still wailing child. “If you’d excuse me?”

“Of course.” Greg followed Mulgrave down the path and wondered how on Earth they’d make it until two thirty.

It turned out not to be too hard. Greg checked in with Sally while Mulgrave disappeared to hobnob with his local counterparts and network. It was almost no time before they were back knocking on the door.

“Hey, come in. Oi, you!” Todd opened the door, lightly batting aside the questing hand reaching for Mulgrave’s shiny tie pin. “Sorry, he’s at the grabby stage. Stop it, Ian. Do you want a time out?”

The toddler shook his head, eyes wide and innocent.

“It’s okay. How old is he?” Mugrave asked politely.

“Three.” Todd let them through to the kitchen. “Thought I was all done after Alex, then after Rob, and then this little guy came along anyway. Sit down, please. Living room’s just through there. Chris got caught after class with a student, but he called just before you got here to say he was on his way. Tea, coffee, water, juice, strawberry milk?”

They both declined, moving through to the other room. Mulgrave sat in the armchair placed prominently forward.

The young boy from earlier was sitting on a play mat in the corner, picture book in hand, but abandoned in favour of watching the strange arrivals. While it was by no means true all Alphas loved children any more than any other stereotype was, Greg had always held a soft spot for animals, children and assorted needy strays. It was how he had ended up with Sherlock, totally against both their wills.

“What’s your name then?” Greg crouched down to be more of a level with the child who only stared back.

“That’s Robert, surprise number one. Say hello Robbie.” Todd filled a sippy cup and brought it over.

“How old are you then, Robbie?” Greg asked.

Six cautious fingers were held up and then dropped in favour of the cup.

“Is this likely to take long?” Todd straightened from his crouch and plonked Ian next to his brother with a stuffed rabbit. “Only I need to collect Alex from school at three thirty.”

“It might be better if you call someone else.” Mulgrave replied solemnly.

“R-right, I’ll just…”

The door opened, almost lost under the delighted squeals as the two children ran over to greet their Sire, who lifted them both up in the air, mixing their giggles with his own playful roar.

Christopher Smith was the unmistakable source of the brunette hair that ran rife through the family, and when he’d chased the children back to their play mat and looked up it was clear he shared his most-likely-eldest son’s eyes.

“You’re the policemen then. What did you need me home for so urgently?”

Christopher Smith, Greg realised, was utterly unperturbed by two strange Doms in his house, probably because he himself was a _very_ strong Dom.

“Mr Smith-”

“Doctor.” Christopher interrupted Mulgrave, sliding gracefully onto the couch. Todd joined him as Christopher gently nudged Robbie so he went back to the play mat. “Stay there for Mummy and I, okay. Sorry, Detective…?”

“Chief Inspector Mulgrave, this is DI Lestrade, New Scotland Yard. Thank you for your cooperation on such short notice.”

“And what brings the London Metropolitan police up here?” He asked, sitting comfortably while he waited for the answer, a picture of relaxation.

“New information has come to light that may have bearing on your eldest son’s case, and we need a DNA sample to-” Mulgrave began carefully.

The reaction was instantaneous. Christopher stiffened, body pulling taut while Todd let out a choked sob.

“He’s dead, isn’t he? You’ve found his body, God.” Todd jumped up, walking away from the couch. Greg couldn’t see his face, but his hands were raised and shoulders hunched, suggesting he was fighting automatic tears.

“We’ve been expecting that for some time.” Christopher said dully. “After over a decade you don’t hold onto hope.”

“Dr Smith-”

“Mummy, Mummy, what’s wrong?” Robbie’s high pitched voice was panicked, breaking through Mulgrave’s attempt to correct them. “Daddy, why’s Mummy crying?”

Ian watched them with wide eyes, too young to know anything other than something was wrong. The stuffed rabbit’s ear was still in his mouth, but he stopped chewing to watch, holding it’s much abused body tight.

“It’s some bad news about someone Mummy and I-”

“Max!” Robbie’s voice was hysterical as he tugged on Todd’s shirt. “Max is hurt? Mummy, Max is fine. Mummy, Max is fine, yes? Mummy!”

“No, no, sweetie, not Max. Max is fine.” Todd scooped up Robbie holding him close. “Max is fine. Our, uh, eldest joined the army this year.” That was directed at Greg and Mulgrave in a tone that spoke of forced normality and choking grief. “Said he wanted to make a difference. God, he was only a baby the last time-”

“If he wanted to make a difference he should have become a scientist, not gone to shoot people and get killed.” Christopher said shortly. He stood to pick up Ian whose lip was trembling.

“A good friend of mine did multiple tours with the RAMC.” Greg said mildly while they got the young ones under control.

“Doctor?” Christopher asked, shushing Ian and bouncing him a little.

“Trauma surgeon.” Greg nodded.

“That is at least worthwhile, not like those testosterone driven hotheads Max wants to be, but he’s over age, so why listen to me.” Christopher put Ian back down, waggling the rabbit until he grabbed at it. “What’s another dead child?” He continued bitterly, though with a fake smile that Ian responded to rather than the words.

Todd hid his face in Robbie’s hair. “Just stop it Chris, please.”

“Dr Smith, really, you’ve misunderstood.” Greg spoke again. The older genderisms meant he was more likely to be listened to than Mulgrave. “There’s a strong possibility that your son might be alive and we need a DNA match to confirm it’s him.”

The room froze in stunned unbelieving relief. Robbie kept wailing about Max and was Max okay, but Todd was too busy staring at Greg to comfort him.

“You found Jeremy?” He whispered. “Oh God, he’s okay? He’s okay and you’ve found him?”

“Where is he?” Christopher was still standing, making him a formidable figure as he towered over them. “Are you sure?”

“It’s a possibility.” Greg repeated, answering the last question.

“How did you, stop fussing Robbie, how did you find him?” Todd sat back down on the couch.

“A long series of coincidences. Luck.” Greg acknowledged. “It’s not certain, though. We’ll need to do a paternity test to confirm-”

“But?” Todd asked earnestly.

“But he has the same birthmark as Jeremy on his wrist, and we’ve confirmed the Alpha claiming to be his Sire isn’t.” Greg admitted.

“Oh God.” Todd collapsed back on the couch, head falling back as he slumped on the cushions.

Christopher was still straight, still standing, but one hand made its way to his Sub’s hair and then clasped Todd’s hand as he was pulled to sit.

“I need to call Brenda.” Todd tightened his grip on Christopher’s hand and then let go, depositing Robbie in his lap. “She needs to get Alex from school. And David, I’ll call David and he can babysit tonight and I need to pack, suitcase, where did we store the bags-”

He fumbled his mobile out of his pocket, still talking, disconnected footnotes to plans flying from his mouth in a steady stream of consciousness.

“Todd, Todd, sit down love.” Christopher held out a hand. “Just call Brenda. We can’t leave until tomorrow, so we’ll pack first thing tonight, I promise, and we don’t need David.”

“But he’s alive and they’ve found him, he’s okay, Chris.” Todd’s eyes were pleading.

“In the morning.” Christopher promised. “We’ll call my brother, he can take the kids and we’ll go fetch him home from London in the morning. He is in London, yes?”

“ _If_ it’s-” Greg tied to put as much emphasis on the ‘if’ as possible.

The pair ignored him, taking it as read that their son was in London. Todd started gushing thanks at Mulgrave, eyes still threatening tears, and Christopher nodded along gently stroking his mate whenever Todd’s emotional pacing brought him within reach. It was around the point they began rearranging bedrooms, Greg had to speak.

“We really,” He spoke firmly to try and get his point noticed, “should wait for the paternity results for all your sakes.”

Three sets of eyes, not counting the children, turned on him.

“We don’t know for sure.” Greg reminded them. “There is a chance that he’s not your son and he’s had a really rough time lately, especially the last couple of weeks since he found out this was a possibility.”

“Couple of weeks?” Christopher’s voice was sharp as he switched his focus from his partner to Greg. “You’re saying you’ve known where our son is for two weeks and you’re only telling us now.”

“The paternity results were only delivered on Friday.” Greg squared his shoulders and unashamedly met Christopher’s gaze.

“But you told him two weeks ago!”

“He needed to know there was a potential for a negative result.” Greg stubbornly remained seated as Christopher rose to his feet, refusing to acknowledge the threat.

“And we didn’t?” The yell filled the room, pressing Greg down into the couch.

The front door slammed open in typical teenage disinterest, bouncing off the wall and marking the plaster. Again.

“Hi Mum, I’m home. Got a lift with Steven”. A tall Alpha slouched into the hall. “He’s gonna swing past later and…”

His voice trailed off as he took in the scene in front of him, Sire standing threateningly over a strange Alpha cop while his younger brother cowered in his Bearer’s tearful arms and Ian sat in terrified silence on the floor hidden behind his bunny.

“What’s happening? Is it Max?” There was a growling edge to his voice as he moved into the room, shoulder instinctively squaring. If he’d been a dog his hackles would have been raised.

“No, Max is fine.” Todd spoke more to Robbie than the new arrival, reassuring the worried child before he could start screaming again. “Conner, can you take your brothers upstairs and call Brenda to get Alex please?”

His voice was remarkably steady, only the slightest hint of emotional distress left. Clearly Todd Smith was an Omega used to dealing with his Alpha family members and knew letting on he was upset would only provoke them all further. Greg supposed that as all his younger children had turned out to be Alpha Doms so far, he’d had a lot of practice.

“But…” Conner was caught between the need to stay and help his Sire against whatever the threat was and the instinct to obey his Bearer and protect the youngsters.

“Do as your mother tells you, Conner.” Christopher growled. He had yet to break eye contact with Greg.

“But-”

“ **Now**!”

Conner moved automatically to take Robert, not even bothering to glower at his Sire over the compulsion.

“Sure?” He asked Todd, kneeling to collect Ian in his other arm.

Todd nodded and tucked Ian’s rabbit under Conner’s arm securely so if Ian dropped it, it wouldn’t fall. Greg thought Conner glared at him as he left the room, but he wasn’t looking away from Christopher to see.

“We had a right to know. He is our _son_.” Christopher half hissed, half growled.

“He _might_ be your son, and has been through enough and needed time to adjust.” Greg calmly and logically replied.

“And so _you_ made the decision not to tell _us_ , his _parents_.”

Todd was glaring at Greg from his position on the couch. There was no help coming from there. Mulgrave certainly wasn’t going to defend Greg; he was too busy glaring psychic daggers into Greg’s back.

“You may not be.”

It was a weak argument, but Greg didn’t have much more, not without saying more about Peter than he wanted to.

“You don’t believe that.” Todd spoke with quiet, angry certainty. “You think we are. That’s _why_ you waited for the paternity test to tell us.”

“You’re trying to keep us away from our son. He is _ours,_ not _yours._ ” Christopher spat out each word as if poisoned.

“Then maybe you’d do better to act like it.” Greg spat back. “Think about what’s best for him.”

“What’s best for him is to be back with his family.” Todd leapt to his feet and yelled. Christopher shifted slightly to better cover his Sub, but otherwise kept growling and let him speak.

“As far as he’s concerned I’ve just arrested his family for a list of charges as long as my forearm.” Greg bit back, automatically restraining his tone against the Omega.

“ _We are his family_!” Todd was shaking, fists clenched. He looked ready to try and land one.

“Really? What’s his favourite food? His favourite band?” Greg challenged, voice rising in volume as he tried desperately to get through the instinct and emotion to the intelligence they both clearly had behind. “What’s he studying at uni? What’s his gender? His name?”

“Jeremy!” Todd screamed.

“Peter! _”_ Greg returned. “As far as he is concerned his name is Peter.”

Todd landed heavily on the couch as his legs folded under him, colour draining out of his cheeks.

“Jeremy.” He denied, almost begging.

“Not to him. He’s not three anymore, not your baby boy. He’s got a life, a Dom, half a university degree and seventeen years behind him as Peter.” Greg spoke gently, hoping he was getting through.

“Because you lot failed to find him the first time around.” Christopher accused bitterly.

“A Dom? He’s an Omega?” Todd whispered. “He’s an Omega. Chris, he’s-”

“He’s coming home tomorrow.” Christopher’s tone was final. “I’m not having an Omega son of mine alone. He’ll be safe here.”

“He’s an adult. You can’t-”

“He is a Sub and my son and he is coming home now!” Christopher overrode Greg’s protest.

“You can’t-”

“ **Enough** Lestrade!” Mulgrave barked out, pressing as much Dominance as he had onto Greg. Next to Christopher Smith it was a light sprinkle in the midst of a thunderstorm, but it was enough to interrupt Greg’s arguments with its focus.

“But-”

“ **Out**!” Mulgrave yelled, voice stronger than Dominance.

Greg knew it was stupid, but he made a point of quirking an eyebrow and straightening his tie before letting the command force him out the door, challenging Mulgrave’s control exactly as he would have if he’d been an Alpha Dom. If he’d been a true Dom, walking out would have been truly voluntary, a concession to Rank not Dominance. As an Alpha Sub, his Alpha stubbornness carried him through the motions of faking it before he collapsed on the other side of the door.

Pacing the footpath, Greg fumed helplessly about being stuck outside while Mulgrave pacified the irate Smiths, all without any of them thinking about Peter and what was best for him. He had almost got through to Todd, almost, and now they were just going to drag him here away from what remained of his life to wrap their beloved Jeremy in bubblewrap and smother him until he fled, unable to take anymore. It was all just so selfish.

There was no way he’d be able to go back and tell Peter what happened, what was coming. He doubted he’d be allowed anywhere near Peter again. Really was going to be up to him now, but Greg could do one last thing before the kid was on his own.

He pulled Susan Graylyn’s card out of his wallet.

“Hello?” From the clatter in the background Greg assumed she was out on the street.

“Nurse Graylyn, it’s DI Lestrade.”

“Susan, really, Detective Inspector. Are you at the hospital already? I’m not in for my shift yet, I’m afraid.”

“Ah, no, not quite. The opposite actually. I’m not going to make it in, so I was wondering whether you could give Peter a message from me?”

“Sorry to hear that, but of course. What did you want me to tell him?”

“Thanks.” Greg shifted slightly, trying to work out the best thing to say. “Just let him know to expect visitors and that he’s probably not going to be staying in hospital much longer. And say sorry from me, but there really is nothing more I can do.”

“Sure thing. When should I tell him you’ll be by? Tomorrow?”

“Uh,” Greg winced, knowing she couldn’t see it. “I doubt I’ll be back soon. There are some… other matters that need my attention.”

“I see.” Susan was not a stupid woman. Greg could practically hear the gears turning in her head. “Well I’ll keep this quiet then. No need for everyone to know I turned down your dinner offer.”

“Uh, thanks. That’s sweet of you.” Greg doubted there’d be questions about the call, but it was still sweet to offer. “All the best.”

“You too.”

Mulgrave ended up taking half an hour to emerge, storming out with an expression that promised hell. Greg straightened, responding to the threat. Stubbornness and hard won experience meant he looked over Mulgrave’s shoulder rather than meeting his eye.

“You!” Mulgrave was shaking with rage. “What do you think that was in there?”

“They-”

“Are his parents, Lestrade. They have a right to see their child.”

“He’s a legal adult.” Greg kept his hands at his sides, balled into fists rather than where he wanted them waving around in the air. It put them too close to Mulgrave and made it all too likely he’d do something drastic. “He’s not ready to-”

“You are a detective, Lestrade,” Mulgrave roared, “not a social worker. I don’t give a flying fuck whether the kid’s excited or not, your job is to find him and report it, not tell his parents how to deal with him.”

“They’re-”

“You’re off the case.” Mulgrave continued. “You are not to go near Jeremy Smith or Peter Carson or whatever he’s calling himself now. You will not go near the Smith family, and you are suspended, effective immediately. Do you understand me?”

“What?” Greg yelled, shock letting him meet Mulgrave’s eyes. “Without me-”

“ **Do you** **understand** **me**?” Mulgrave pressed, leaning heavily into his Dominance.

“Yes.” Greg choked out bitterly, but no more.

He was an Alpha and would not prostrate himself before this piss weak Beta Dom, no matter what he was trying to get him to do. He had told Mycroft Holmes to shove it. He was not going to kowtow to this idiot.

“Good!” Mulgrave roared. “Warrant card!”

Greg didn’t move, arms crossed defiantly.

“ **Warrant card**!”Mulgrave demanded again, palm outstretched. Face twisted into a sneer, Greg slapped the black leather card wallet onto his DCI’s palm. “Now get the fuck out of my sight. I don’t want to see you anywhere near the Yard, do you hear me?”

“Crystal.” Greg snarled.

* * *

_Monday 6/6/11 9:34 am_

_To: Gregory Lestrade <uhbve_3483@secure.co.uk>_

_Subject: Re:_

_Gregory,_

_I do hope John wasn’t too put out by my request for Sherlock, and if he was then I hope it didn’t take it out too much on the messenger. Sherlock has texted me to confirm the results. I can only assume the fact that the request came through you is responsible for the speed of his response, so thank you._

_Gregory, I know you’re not particularly taken with the idea of Abernathy, but it’s just a name. It’s really not like it matters what we call him, it won’t change him. And you got to do the nursery, isn’t that enough?_

_It was rather amusing, but …_

_Mycroft_

* * *

_Monday 6/6/11 7:38 pm_

_To: Mycroft Holmes <diklr_3496@whitehall.gov.uk>_

_Subject:_

_What the fuck! I’m sorry, I got to do the nursery. I_ GOT _to do it? I’m so sorry Master, what trick would you like me to perform next so I can have say into his haircut? It’s not about whether Abernathy is a good name, it’s about if you and I are raising this child as partners or whether you and your fucked up family are in charge and I get to beg for the occasional scrap. Oh, just let him have a say into his suit jacket, it’ll keep him happy for the next six monts. So what, if they demnad he gets sent away to school as a todler or that it’d look better if your Mum raised him as there’s no Omega here, you’re just going to do it? Doesn’t matter what you and I want, Mummy has decied? Because I don’t give a flying fuck what I have to do, your overbearing family is not getting their claws into my son and giving him the same fucked up abusive childhood you had. I don’t acre if Mummy and Daddy made you feel like a disapointmnet, Mummy and Daddy were fucked up abusive pricks who shouldn’t have ben let anywhere near a child so pull your haed out of your arseand chose a namme for our son o,… I don’t nkow, but or!._

* * *

Greg’s ringtone blasted unforgivingly through his skull. He groaned, reaching to pull the pillow over his head and block out the noise. Doing so brushed his fingers against the headboard and he winced as the light contact aggravated the cuts and bruises on his hands. Flinching Greg hissed, pulling his hands close reflexively.

The phone shut up.

Last night was not high on Greg’s list of pleasant memories. After getting himself home from Cambridge, the email that was waiting from Mycroft… He’d knocked back three scotches before he realised what he was doing and almost thrown the glass at the wall. He’d never been the cop who went home to drink away his problems, but now it was all he ever seemed to do.

The fact that it was Mycroft’s glass and was probably not actually glass and had some fancy name stopped him.

Instead he’d put on his running gear and run and run until he’d passed a 24 hour gym with a guy beating up a punching bag visible through the window. He’d veered inside and beaten a bag and his hands bloody.

It wasn’t quite a hangover, but given his anger over the Smiths and Mulgrave and Mycroft and his goddam job had kept him there until well after midnight even before he defiantly ran all the way home the lack of sleep felt very similar.

His phone blared out its ringtone afresh. Flipping over the screen, caller ID told him it came from the Yard.

Specifically Mulgrave.

“Yes?” He answered, not bothering to put on a bright cheery voice or be polite.

“Where the fuck have you been?” Mulgrave yelled.

Greg pulled the phone away from his head and turned on the speaker.

“At home. I’m suspended, remember.” Greg rolled over onto his back and snarked sarcastically, not bothering to address his superior officer politely.

He’d pay for it later, but he was still too enraged to think through the consequences. Not after being Dommed by Mulgrave, a Beta only middling-low on the scale. Not after he was suspended for doing the _right thing_.

“Get your fucking arse in here, do you hear me. I want you here five minutes ago.” Mulgrave blasted down the line.

The dial tone was very quiet immediately after.

Growling lightly Greg went through the motions of getting up and dressed, not particularly bothering to hurry. He didn’t dawdle too much, but by the time he walked into the yard in casual trousers and a distinctly non-work shirt he was skating the very edge of insubordination not only as a DI, but as an inferior Dom to a superior, Beta or no.

The stares as he casually strolled through the Yard confirmed that the rumour mill was active as ever. Showing up clearly not dressed for work had probably confirmed at least half the options, though what the content was exactly Greg didn’t know. Probably didn’t want to know either.

He settled for adjusting his aviators.

“Lestrade!” Mulgrave snarled from the doorway to Packenham’s office. “In here, now!”

Taking off his aviators with forced casualness, Greg followed him in.

“ **Where is he**?” Christopher Smith had Greg pinned against the wall before Mulgrave had slammed the door behind him. “ **What did you do?** ”

“Christopher!” Todd tugged at his bicep.

“ **Where is my son?** ” “Christopher roared.

Greg was glad that Packenham and Mulgrave were having trouble standing upright, both bowed under the weight of Christopher Smith’s force. The only one even semi coping was Todd, and Greg thought his tugging on his mate’s arm might be as much for support as to restrain him.

“I don’t know.” He answered honestly, though he did bare his teeth while doing so. “Locked up at your house I would have thought.”

“Doctor Smith, please sit down.” Packenham straightened his tie, a tell Greg recognised as a Sub trying to regain face.

“ **Where-** ”

“Dr Smith I must insist you sit down.” Packenham barked. There was no dominance behind it, no bite.

“Christopher.” Todd’s voice was pleading.

Slowly the iron grip around Greg’s arm and shoulder loosened. As soon as possible Greg shook himself free, taking himself a few steps away from Smith who settled in a chair, Todd locked to his side by an arm around his waist.

“Thank you.” Packenham said politely before seating himself in his own chair.

A hand wave also seated Mulgrave, though Greg was left standing. Fair enough he supposed. He was the one on mock trial.

“Lestrade, where is Jeremy Smith?” Packenham sat calmly with his hands folded on the desk and voice steady. Greg reluctantly had to admire his poise only seconds after being smashed around in the wave of Smith’s dominance.

“At the hospital.” Greg replied. It was a bit more grudging than defiant to his disgust, probably due to the involuntary and entirely unwelcome flash of respect. “The room number is in the files or you could have asked Sergeant Donovan.”

Christopher began shifting in his seat, but Packenham ignored him and held himself still and firm with the weight of his office, rather than his dominance. Todd stroked his Alpha’s hair and tangled his fingers in the base and Christopher settled. Slightly.

“Peter Carson-” Christopher’s growl stopped Packenham, but with a mild look over at the Dom he continued. “The boy registered in the hospital as Peter Carson discharged himself yesterday afternoon.”

“What?” Greg lurched off the wall, relaxed cocky pose falling away.

“He discharged himself against medical advice yesterday afternoon.” Packenham repeated calmly, though slightly louder over the grumble emanating from the Smiths.

“This is not good.” Greg stared at Packenham wide eyed, mind racing as he simultaneously tried to beat himself up for giving Peter the notice he’d used to run and working out where he might have gone.

“This is all because you wanted to keep him. You are not his Alpha!”

“Neither are you!” Greg threw back automatically, trying to think through things as rapidly as possible.

“I am-” Christopher started to say before Greg rounded on him.

“You have no idea how bad this is.” He snarled. “Peter has been in and out of Subdrop constantly for the last two weeks.”

“So he should have been with us where I can stabilise him. His Dom is clearly pathetic.” Christopher returned. Todd kept him sitting by leaning his weight heavily against him, and in his current mood the comfort of having his Omega so close was not something Christopher was going to shake off.

“Oh, because what your son really needs right now is another male family member forcing Dominance on him.” Greg sarcastically “His Dom is doing the right thing and trying to get him to trust him, and you, you…”

He threw his hands up in disgust and stalked over to the door.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Packenham half rose from his seat.

“To find Peter Carson. Again,” Greg snarled. “Since apparently in the eighteen odd hours I’ve been suspended you’ve managed to lose him.”

He turned and took a step.

“Lestrade!” Packenham called behind him. Reluctantly, Greg turned, sending him the most evil glare he could. “You’ll need this.”

Greg’s warrant card sailed through the air, bouncing off his chest.

“Find him.” Packenham’s order was crisp. “And make it fast.”

~*~

“You’ve reached Daniel Hill. I can’t come to the phone right now, so if you leave a message I’ll get back to you as soon as possible. Thanks.”

“Daniel, this is DI Lestrade. I need you to call me back as soon as you get this message. It’s important. Thanks.”

~*~

“I told you not to stick your neck out.”

It was the only line Sally had said to him since they got in the car. The rest of the trip had been in stony silence as she refused to even look at him.

Greg didn’t push.

“Sam!” He pounded on the door. “Sam, open up, we need to speak to you.”

“Hang.. on, yeah.” Sam’s voice struggled towards the door. It opened with his t-shirt not yet over his head. “DI Lestrade?”

Greg breezed through the door, knocking the young kid slightly sideways as he barged through.

“Is he here?” Greg swung to face Sam. “Is Peter here?”

“What? No.” Sam looked confused. “He’s at the hospital.”

“Not anymore.” Greg paced restlessly up and down the entryway. “He discharged himself yesterday against medical advice.”

“And? He’s an adult yeah? He can do that.” Sam shuffled his feet, not quite wanting to look defiant in front of an officer he didn’t dislike, but also not sure what he should be saying.

“Yes, but no.” Greg was barely resisting tugging at his own hair. “He’s been skirting Subdrop for two weeks.”

“Oh.” Sam’s eyes were wide. “That’s not good.”

“No,” Greg agreed. “Not good sums it up pretty well, and now I can’t find him.”

“If you don’t mind me asking,” Sam asked cautiously, “why are you even looking? I mean, it’s bad yeah, but not really a detective’s job given he could leave.”

“Because…What has he told you?” Greg’s foot was jiggling, whether he wanted it to or not.

“Um, that apparently he was adopted or something. He wasn’t really clear. Is that what you mean?” Sam looked down, scrubbing his foot into the carpet.

“Close enough.” Greg conceded. “His birthparents came down for him yesterday, and he wasn’t ready to see them and he apparently ran to get away from them.”

“Still not really a missing persons case…” Sam drifted off quietly.

“No, but given I think it’s better I find him rather than his parents... Right now they’re happy for me to run with it, so I will. His new Sire is bit… controlling.”

“Oh.” Sam started nodding. “Right, not good. With you.”

“Look, if he comes here, try to get him to let me know, or call me, if you have to. I’ll work something out.”

“Yeah, yeah sure.” Sam was nodding so hard his head was possibly going to nod off.

“Good, that’s good.” Greg flew back out the door.

~*~

“Lestrade, my office!” Packenham’s voice thundered out over the bullpen.

Greg sighed and walked out of his office, heading into Packenham’s. He was getting tired of these daily check-ups.

“Have you found him yet?” Packenham asked in the type of overly reasonable tone that was only ever fake.

“Nothing yet.” Greg reported the same as he had every day.

“It’s been a week.” Packenham’s voice was tight under the enforced control. “The Smiths want you taken off this investigation and I am inclined to give that to them to try and repair some of this force’s image, especially as you aren’t getting anywhere.”

“If they’d listened to me in the first place, he wouldn’t have gone to ground to hide from them.”

Packenham wasn’t the only one who could overly sweeten his voice. Greg could feel a cavity coming on from all the fake sugary goodness being thrown around the room.

“They’re coming in this afternoon, and they are not happy. You have until three o’clock to produce Peter Carson or Jeremy Smith or whatever the fuck the boy is calling himself, otherwise you are off the case, back on suspension and I will not stop them filing charges for interference. Clear?” Packenham smiled pleasantly. It had too many teeth.

“And if I do find Peter, what then?” Greg smiled back, just as pleasantly with just as many teeth.

“You’re back on suspension, your behaviour will be reviewed, and you will probably be off the force anyway, but the Smiths might be less inclined to file charges. Police officers don’t do so well in lock up. Especially not detectives.”

If this was the kind of power play Packenham wanted to run, he really should take lessons. Mycroft could smile so genially you never felt the knife as it plunged between your ribs. Packenham still made it a challenge and a threat.

“Such incentive.” Greg turned and walked out.

Sally glared at him as he emerged. She still wasn’t pleased with the way he’d got himself into trouble. She understood, but forgiveness and approval were not the same thing and she was pissed off at him and for him.

Sadly, this had not been an unusual state of affairs for him lately.

Sally had been working ridiculous levels of overtime to pick up all the slack from Greg’s caseload while he concentrated fully on finding Peter. Unfortunately outside interviewing the medical staff who discharged him, that hadn’t got him far. Peter’s phone was turned off as was Daniel’s, which gave Greg some hope that maybe they’d run away together, though it meant there was no way to trace the signal.

Sam claimed not to know anything and Greg believed him. The poor Sub was frantic with worry, more so than Peter’s other friends who were concerned, but not too stressed, focus stolen from Peter’s disappearance by exams and assignments. Nonetheless, there was nothing Greg could track down to suggest that anyone had assisted Peter in any way.

Greg couldn’t get a warrant, as technically Peter was an adult and had no one to answer to but himself, so he couldn’t look into Peter’s financials and so far his credit card hadn’t been used. He had very few ideas where else to look, certainly nothing that would find Peter by three, and the only reason he was looking as hard as he was was the fact that if he didn’t find Peter, the Yard and the Smiths would find someone else who would.

Even if he did find him, looked like this was his last day in this office. Greg wondered if it would be premature to start packing.

He wasted a couple of hours following up small leads, things that were unlikely to pan out, but all he had. It was methodical work, boring and mindless, but with no grounds for a warrant and so no authorisation to search for Peter’s more personal details it was all he could do.

His phone rang and he answered it mindlessly, mouse clicking on another link while he followed the electronic trail of nothing. “DI Lestrade.”

“Detective Inspector?”

Greg froze and then resumed clicking as naturally as possible, though he wasn’t paying attention to what hyperlinks he was actually following. Hopefully nothing that was going to infect his computer in the long run.

“Peter?”

“Yes, I-”

“Are you okay?”

He sounded breathless and a little lost, but otherwise in good health.

“Yes, I’m well.”

“Good, okay, good.”

“Can we meet?”

Greg fidgeted in his chair a little. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“I need to talk to you.”

“Okay, okay sure. When and where?” Greg took a furtive look out into the bullpen. There wasn’t anyone paying attention to him, so with any luck getting out without being noticed wouldn’t be a problem.

“Um, outside the Yard.”

“Ar-”

“Say, about now?”

“You’re – Jesus. Yep, coming out. I’ll see you in a sec.” Greg grabbed his jacket.

“Thanks. Thanks, I’m round the corner.”

Peter sounded nervous. Greg didn’t blame him.

“I’m heading into the lift.” Greg jammed the button for the ground floor repeatedly.

“Oo-kay.” Greg could imagine the Omega rocking back and forward, heel to toe.

“Almost there.” Greg casually strolled out the door, stopping on the pavement to look both ways trying to see Peter. “Where are you? No wait, I see you.”

Greg hung up and headed over to where Peter was almost bouncing with nerves.

“Hey,” Greg pulled up awkwardly next to the boy, hands thrust into his pocket.

“Hi, can we talk?” Peter was slightly hunched, and his eyes kept darting around the crowd.

“Yeah, yeah.” Greg’s mind flew quickly through a list of places they could get to quickly without looking any more suspicious than they currently were. Already they were drawing considering looks from people passing on the street as well as those going in and out of the yard. “Coffee?”

“There?” Peter frowned as Greg led the way into the Starbucks opposite.

“We’re attracting attention.” Greg pushed gently to direct him into the armchairs situated away from the door. “There’s no official case open on your disappearance, so your photo hasn’t been that widely circulated. I’m hoping, hoping mind you, that no one here will recognise you.”

“Hoping?” It wasn’t quite a squeak.

“You’re an adult and checking out against medical advice isn’t a crime.” Greg smiled what he liked to believe was helpfully. “On the other hand you’re a police witness and a kidnapping victim from a very old case and your Sire is um… very persuasive. Your photo has been circulated round the Yard quite a bit, but it’s not public yet.”

“Not sure I like the sound of yet.” Peter tittered. It had the edge of hysteria.

“Don’t know if you’ve had much access to the news wherever you were, but your case has had quite a bit of media attention.” Greg tried not to study the few officers walking in too suspiciously. To his relief, they barely glanced at him. “Not everything, but the media did get hold of the fact that you’re an Omega and that the Yard arrested your Uncle for trying to kill you. Unfortunately, once they got that, court records are public so everything we’ve charged your Uncle with is available to them.”

“That includes…”

“Yeah, everything.” Greg gave him a sympathetic look. “So far your identity has been supressed in the news, that hasn’t been publicised, and they don’t know whose son you were before you were taken, but everything else is out there.”

“Right, God.” Peter fiddled with his sleeves.

“Do you want a coffee?” Greg asked.

Peter made a jumble of sounds and motions that didn’t seem to mean all that much as he processed things. Greg took that as a yes, more so he had time to process things than because he needed the coffee. Greg also got a selection of pastries and a brownie because Peter looked like he needed both chocolate and something to occupy himself with shredding or he wouldn’t have any fingernails left soon.

“Okay,” Peter said as Greg sat back down, accepting the cardboard cup. “So I’m sort of public news now.”

“Like I said, yes and no. The media haven’t actually said this person is you, if that’s any help.” Peter shook his head. “Yeah didn’t think so.”

“And finding me is not a big case?” Peter looked confused. “Just with all that…”

“Like I said, not really officially a case. Having said that, so far the Yard hasn’t said they’ve lost you so once that comes out…” Greg took a slurp of his coffee rather than continue.

“Thanks for the warning, anyway.” Peter sighed. “Running wasn’t probably the best plan, but…”

“You felt trapped.” Greg nodded. “It’s okay, I know.”

“When Nurse Susan said you weren’t coming back and that they were coming to see me I knew something had happened and I just-”

“Hey, hey, it’s okay.” Greg reached over and clasped Peter’s wrist gently. “Really, it’s fine. To be honest, I rather figured that you’d be running away from Cambridge after a few weeks with them. You just jumped the gun a bit.”

Peter let out a dry laugh.

“Tell me about them?” He asked plaintively.

“What would you like to know?” Greg pulled his hand back, wrapping it back around his awful coffee. His tastes really had been spoilt by Mycroft.

“What’re they like?”

“Well, your Sire’s Doctor Christopher Smith. He’s a lecturer at Cambridge, but don’t ask me what. If I knew I’ve forgotten. He’s intelligent, obviously, seemed like quite a good guy before he got his back up about me telling them they couldn’t see you. Having his rather overwrought Sub upset by my refusals probably didn’t help that. He’s a bit possessive, bit controlling, you know, typical strong Alpha Dom. Um, yeah, mostly we didn’t really converse well together. Loves his mate though, that was pretty clear. Pretty sure they’re Bonded.

“Your Bearer’s name is Todd. He looks like you, despite being blonde. He seems quite nice, sweet even, though stubborn as hell. Really strong personality too, though I suppose with that many Alphas in the house you kinda have to be to survive.”

“Other Alphas?” Peter jumped in.

“Yeah, your brothers.”

“I have brothers.” Peter repeated uncertainly.

“Quite a few of them actually.” Greg ticked them off his fingers. “Max, who joined the army. Your Sire didn’t approve of that, but he went anyway. Technically I suppose you’ve met him, he had been born before you were taken, but you’re not going to remember. Conner, he’s in high school. Again, can’t say we really got off on the right foot given what he walked into the middle of. They’re both Alphas.

“Alex was at school, but he’s the next one. I don’t know whether he’s presented or not. I don’t think he’s an Omega though if he has. Just didn’t get that impression. Then there’s Robbie, he’s six. Seems to really miss Max, absolutely scared out of his wits something had happened to his older brother. Felt a bit bad about that actually. Youngest is Ian. He’s cheeky and entirely precocious from what I saw. Has this stuffed rabbit that looks like it’s in the process of being simultaneously loved and chewed to death. He’s three.”

“So I seriously have five brothers.” Peter stared at him in amazement.

“Yep.” Greg confirmed.

“That’s just…” Peter’s fingers had finished with the puff pastry on the Danish and were now idly separating all the flakes of the chocolate croissant. “I’m an only child, but I have five brothers and…”

“I know.” Greg reassured him. “I know. It’s a shock.”

“I just… I don’t know what to do.” Peter looked at him pleadingly. “I don’t know if I want to meet them, I don’t know if I want them to go away and never come near me, I don’t know what they expect, I don’t… I don’t know who I am, let alone who they expect me to be.”

Tears were welling up in Peter’s eyes, not quite trickling down his face, but certainly threatening to.

“It doesn’t matter what they expect.” Greg told him firmly. “You don’t have to do anything for them you don’t want to, and you don’t have to be anyone you don’t want to be. You’re legally an adult, and if you choose to walk away and change your name to David Johnson, then you can.”

“What do they want?” Peter sniffed.

“They want their baby back, Peter.” Greg told him outright. “They want the child that was taken, and it’s going to take them a lot of time to come to grip with the fact that time didn’t freeze for you and you’re not three. Don’t worry about what they want. What do you want?”

“I don’t… I don’t know.” Peter started compulsively shredding the napkin. “I don’t know anything. I thought I could work it out and I haven’t got anywhere and I just don’t know what I want and…”

His chin trembled and one of the tears broke free and ran down his face.

“I want Daniel.” His voice was choked. “I want Daniel.”

“Okay, okay, we’ll call him.” Greg smiled comfortingly, fishing out his phone. “We’ll call him now.”

“He... He might not…” Peter had odd tears running from both eyes now, not quite a steady flow, but more than the occasional one.

“He’ll come.” Greg reassured him. “He’ll come.”

“But…”

“I take it you haven’t talked to him in a bit.” Greg unlocked the screen.

“Not since…” Peter didn’t finish, sniffing into a napkin.

“I thought you might have gone with him.” Greg handed him a new napkin.

“He’s away.” Peter sniffed out. “Bachelor party for one of his banker friends. They’ve been gone a week. He didn’t want to go, tried to cancel weeks ago, but I said he had to and…”

More tears ran down his face, and he started chewing on his lip.

“It’s okay.” Greg gripped Peter’s wrist again in support, kid’s fingers still busy fiddling with everything they could reach, and then set his phone to dial Daniel’s number.

“DI Lestrade, thank Christ you called.” Daniel answered on the first ring. “I’ve just been to the hospital and Peter’s gone and-”

“He’s with me.” Greg interrupted. “We’re at the Starbucks opposite the Yard.”

“Really? Oh Jesus, thank you.” There was a soft thump in the background noise of the phone as Daniel apparently went limp against a wall. “I’m almost at the Yard. I was coming to see you, cause of your message, but then Peter was-”

“Just keep coming. How far away are you?” Greg asked.

“About four blocks.” Daniel started huffing slightly into the phone. Greg’s guess was that he was running.

Peter had stopped the tears, but was still sniffing and shredding whatever was close to his fingers.

“He’s coming.” Greg covered the phone and held it out. “Do you want to speak to him?”

Peter nodded sharply and accepted it in shaking hands. “D-Daniel?”

Evidently the sound of Peter’s voice over the phone had a rather significant effect on Daniel, because Peter didn’t speak again, alternatively smiling weakly and trembling and sniffing into the receiver.

Greg quietly cleaned up the detritus on the table, throwing away the shredded remains of Peter’s nervous compulsion. He considered getting something to actually eat, but the staff behind the counter were giving him strange looks. Looking around carefully on the way back to his seat he noticed they weren’t the only ones, and problematically, a few of them were officers from the Yard.

“Hey, can I just quickly?” He took the phone before Peter had a chance to protest. “Hey, Daniel, yeah you can have him back in a second. When you come in, any chance you can _not_ burst through the door yelling his name? Yeah, thanks. Here.”

Greg passed it back and sat down. True to his word, Daniel didn’t burst through the door less than five minutes later. He walked in calmly, in perfect control, and looked so suspicious that every person in Starbucks was watching him walk over and sit down.

“Peter.” Daniel sat down pulling Peter into a hug.

“I’m sorry.” Peter buried his face in Daniel’s neck. “I’m sorry. I just needed time and I was confused and-”

“It’s okay, it’s okay.” Daniel pulled back. “Peter, please, listen. I don’t care what your name is and it doesn’t change anything about you at all and I love you and that won’t change.”

“I missed you.” Peter whispered. “I missed you so much.”

“Aw.” One of the women on the other side of the shop cooed. “Aren’t they cute.”

Greg sent her a fake smile, more grimace, and turned back to the table. “Hey, you two, if you don’t want the Yard to know you’re here, then we really need to-” The door opened and Dimmock and two sergeants walked in. “Peter, you _really_ need to decide if you’re-”

“Lestrade?” Dimmock caught sight of him and started towards them. “Why are you here? I thought you’d be back at the Yard preparing for the press brief-ing… oh God…” Dimmock’s eyes went wide. “That’s the kid.”

“Yeah, press briefing?” Greg asked.

“Um, about…um, no one told you about the press briefing?” Dimmock kept trying to tear his eyes away from Peter and failed, managing about a microsecond of looking at Greg before back to Peter.

“What press briefing? And why would I be preparing? I’m back on suspension at three.” Greg pressed.

“Um, his press briefing.” Dimmock indicated Peter with his head. “Um, one of the journalists broke ranks and decided that he wasn’t a minor so they could release his name, despite the sex offences. Yard’s having to make a statement in about ten minutes. Haven’t you noticed half the BBC turning up outside? The Smiths arrived twenty minutes ago. They’ve been in with Packenham.”

“Crap, I’ve been concentrating on other things.” Greg ran his fingers backwards through his hair.

“You’re on suspension?” Daniel asked quizzically.

“Yeah, apparently yelling at victim’s families about whether or not hauling arse down to London to see long lost babies when said no longer babies don’t want to see them is not exactly a good idea. Peter, you really need to decide what you’re doing now. If you don’t want to see your family yet, you need to leave now.”

Dimmock made a choked sound that Greg cut off with a sharp wave of his hand.

“What about you?” Peter asked, glancing from Dimmock’s frozen expression to Greg. “That’s going to get you in trouble, if I just leave, yeah?”

“At this stage Peter, pretty sure I’m screwed either way.” Greg calmly told him. “I doubt my, uh, friend will actually let me get prosecuted by your family, so either way worst that’s going to happen is pretty much the same whether you front up or not. So do what you need.”

Dimmock was making a lot of aborted facial twitches and opening and shutting his mouth like he wanted to protest, but didn’t dare in the face of Greg’s shushing.

“I think,” Peter began, looking from Dimmock’s barely contained horror to Greg’s calm acceptance and finally to Daniel’s steady gaze, “that maybe it’s time for me to stop running. After all, everything’s out already now, yeah?”

“You don’t have to do this, Peter.” Greg told him.

“Yes, I do.” Peter shook his head. “I think I’ve run from this long enough and it’s not doing anything. Everyone’s going to know who I am anyway now; time to face it. So,” he took a deep breath and continued with false cheer, “let’s go meet the family, shall we?”

The reporters were all heading into the press room, showing IDs to be let in as their group walked past, Greg trying to subtly hurry them so that they wouldn’t get seen. Dimmock trailed behind, facial spasms aborted though he still hadn’t managed to speak and had been surreptitiously texting when he thought Greg couldn’t see him at the lights. Greg didn’t bother wondering whom.

Peter had slowed as the glass window into the press room approached. Just past it he stopped, despite Greg’s best efforts, and stared through, looking at his face projected up onto the screen behind the desk and microphones. A few of the journalists had film cameras, other photographers testing the light for their digital still shots.

“Peter,” Daniel tugged on him.

Greg turned his head to see Packenham and Mulgrave, both in their good suits with folders striding down the corridor towards them. So far they hadn’t looked up and noticed them, but once they did the milling crowd wouldn’t hide them at all.

“Peter!”

Daniel’s yell spun Greg’s head the other way to see Peter marching determinedly into the press room right up to the front. With his face and name projected up right behind him, there was no mistaking who he was and the camera flashes started going off like lightning. The small group hurried after, but other than standing there to the side, Greg didn’t know what to do. Master of handling the press he was not, but yanking Peter away from the front didn’t seem like the best idea.

“Um, thanks for coming. Not who you were expecting, I know.” Peter seated himself firmly on the chair up the front.

Packenham and Mulgrave walked in the door, identical looks of shock not captured because none of the cameramen were focusing on them. Greg swallowed and looked back at Peter rather than dare run the risk of meeting their gaze when they located him.

“As you’ve all probably worked out, I’m Peter Carson. Or not, as the case may be.” The press were too professionally to laugh, but the cameras and scratching pens made up for the lack of response. “Approximately two and a half months ago the man I thought of as my uncle tried to kill me because I’d worked out that he had murdered an Alpha he thought was interested in me. Despite knowing none of that, not even that I was actually an Omega, and faced with one dead body and one totally unrelated assault victim in a coma, the hardworking detectives at the Yard still managed to piece together what had happened and arrest my uncle.

“Since you’ve undoubtedly all been through the charges filed with the court, you’re probably aware that they managed to uncover a lot more than the fact that he hit me over the head. I um, won’t go into that if you don’t mind. Probably not allowed to as it’s all got to go to court still.

“But that’s not what makes me interesting, or unusual and not why you’re here. You’re here because apparently my name isn’t actually Peter Carson, it’s Jeremy Smith and I was abducted seventeen years ago, a fact that I didn’t know until against all odds my missing persons report came to light. And let’s face it, long lost son reunited with family is a much better story than assault victim wakes up from coma.”

Greg could feel the burning holes in the back of his work suit where Mulgrave and Packenham were trying to incinerate him where he stood. If he was lucky he might live to the end of Peter’s stuttered, halting speech.

“There’s just one more thing I want to say before I go.” Peter continued, still staring resolutely out into the sea of reporters, chin jutting stubbornly forward. “I just wanted to thank Detective Sergeant Donovan and Detective Inspector Lestrade who were in charge of my case. DI Lestrade has gone so far beyond what he had to do for me and I can one hundred per cent honestly say that without him I would not be in front of you today. He was the one whose hard work connected the missing persons report with me, he was the one who took the time to keep me updated with what was going on and tried to help me understand what it meant in terms of, well, this kind of possible mass public exposure, and he’s the one who has done everything in his power to help me cope with it so I could sit here now and speak to you. I owe him so much. Thank you.”

The last words were spoken directly to Greg, and the next thing he knew there were microphones being shoved in his face and camera flashes half blinding him. Greg’s preference would have been to hide behind Dimmock, but that not being an option he settled for hoping he didn’t look too anything in the photos.

“Yes, thank you.” He called out, wading the best he could through the crowd to Peter. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, there’s a family reunion that needs to happen. I’m sure DCI Mulgrave and DCS Packenham will be able to answer any of your questions.”

Grabbing Peter’s arm he navigated them out the best he could, trying to keep the rest of the microphones out of their faces and not fall over any chairs. When they managed to reach where Dimmock and Daniel had been, Greg noticed that Dimmock had already managed to extract the young Alpha and they were waiting outside the door.

“Donovan says his parents are waiting outside Packenham’s office for him to come back from the press conference. They haven’t been told Peter’s here yet.” Dimmock told him once they’d managed to get some distance between them and the journalists.

Greg nodded in acknowledgement.

“You didn’t have to do that, Peter.” He looked worriedly at the kid. “Are you sure that that was-”

“It all would have come out anyway.” Peter shrugged. “Like I said: time to deal. It’s not like I really told them anything they didn’t already know. And this way’s better for you.”

“I hope you still feel that way tomorrow.” Greg sighed in resignation. “Your picture’s going to be everywhere.”

“Already was.” Peter replied stubbornly.

They stepped out into the bullpen to find Sally waiting just by the entrance. Daggers didn’t begin to describe the look she gave Greg, but the expression was softened to a relieved smile for Peter and Daniel.

“This way.” She indicated for their benefit.

There were a few hard plastic chairs outside Packenham’s office for officers to wait in before meetings. Christopher and Todd Smith occupied two of them, Todd’s hand held comfortingly by Christopher as the Omega stared at a rather old looking photograph with big tragic eyes.

Greg was the first around the corner. In retrospect, he wasn’t sure whether that was good or bad.

“What are you doing here?” Christopher Smith clambered straight to his feet. “You haven’t found Jeremy, so what makes you think you can just waltz past - I am going to have you prosecuted for everythi-”

Peter came to a stop beside Greg, out of nerves or in a show of support, Greg wasn’t sure. Christopher’s voice cut off halfway through his rant, as sharply as a carving knife through warm butter. Todd slowly got to shaky feet.

“Jeremy?” He whispered. “Oh, Jeremy, that’s you, oh.”

He took a step towards Peter and stopped when Peter flinched back and away, finishing slightly behind Greg.

“I’m guessing you’re my Bearer.” Peter said. “Todd, DI Lestrade told me.”

“Yeah,” Todd smiled despite looking like he was going to cry. “Yes, I’m your mum.”

“Right, sorry, that’s a bit weird. I mean, I knew some people called their Omega parents mum, but…” Peter wrapped a hand around his own waist. “Yeah, that’s strange.”

There was protracted silence while all the parties studied each other. It was broken by the sound of Packenham and Mulgrave storming down to corridor towards them.

“Lestrade!” Packenham roared. “What on earth do you think you’re playing at?”

“Sir, I-”

“Oh, and you just mystically managed to produce him in time. Are we really supposed to believe that?” Mulgrave looked ready to flay the skin off a tiger, let alone a man.

“Until I spoke to-” Greg realised he’d misspoken when Dr Smith reared up like a serpent ready to strike.

“You called him. You’ve known how to find him all this time.” He hissed. “You’ve been keeping him away and all you had to do-”

“Actually,” Peter slid in smoothly in an icy voice. “I called him.”

There was a sudden silence as the three antagonists were brought up short.

“He didn’t know where I was,” Peter continued, sending his own hostile glare at his Sire. “Not until I contacted him today.”

“You-”

“And the _only_ ,” Peter stressed, “reason I am here is because I trusted him enough to make that call so maybe you might want to stop yelling.”

There was a pregnant pause before Christopher continued in a more volume appropriate, though no less menacing, voice. “We should have been informed the moment you were located.”

“If I had thought Mr Lestrade would do that,” Peter parried, “I wouldn’t have called.”

“He is overstepping-”

“He is doing what is best for me!” Peter stepped slightly sideways so he was able to confront his Sire straight on. “Which you can’t even give a damn about. I just woke up from a coma, for God’s sake and had almost everyone I care about arrested.”

Todd made a pained sound.

“ _My family_ ,” Peter continued viciously, confirming to Greg at least that he had heard the whimper “has just been arrested.”

Todd had turned slightly away from the conversation, visibly wanting to turn and hide from the hurt, but unable to let Peter out of his line of sight even for a second.

“They were not your family.” The rage was bubbling under the words. They had affected Christopher as well. “And you needed to be at home so we could look after you and stabilise your condition-”

“You are not my Alpha!” Peter spat back. He squared his body to make the words a challenge.

“I am your Sire.” Christopher replied slowly and clearly as though talking to a simpleton. “And your _Alpha_ ” the word was sneering “is clearly not doing his job if you were in and out of Subdrop.”

“Or maybe,” Peter threw back, “my Alpha was trying to do the right thing and give me space until I was ready. Maybe he was trying do what I asked and understand what I needed, or did it not occur to you that after being sexually abused by my uncle for years, having Dominance forced on me might not be the best idea?”

Christopher Smith’s face blanched and Todd staggered a few steps to the seats. He leant on the back taking shuddering breaths, arm curled over his chest and gripping painfully. Greg made eye contact with Sally and flicked his head towards the mess room. She nodded and headed off to get some water.

“We didn’t…” Christopher swallowed heavily. Greg could see the shock on his face at what exactly his son had been put through, and this, he thought, was without even knowing any details.

“You didn’t ask!” Peter exploded. “Inspector Lestrade tried to tell you and you wouldn’t even let him get the explanation out did you?”

“He was overstepping-”

“He is the only one of the five of you,” Peter threw his hands wide to include the silent Packenham and Mulgrave, “who has given a second thought about what might be best for me, not as a PR stunt or for you!”

“He is not your Sire.” Christopher repeated.

“Neither,” Peter glowered, “are you. You didn’t raise me, you are not my Alpha, you’re just a sperm donor. Now get the fuck out of my sight.”

“You are coming ho-” Christopher made one last ditch frontal assault.

“I am going back to _my_ flat with _my_ flatmate.” Peter’s eyes narrowed. “I am an adult, I don’t have to do anything you say, and you can consider yourself lucky if you ever see me again.”

“Jeremy-” Todd broke in pleadingly.

“My name,” Greg was amazed the hall didn’t freeze over in the face of the glacial tones, “is Peter.”

Daniel moved closer to Peter, as with an irate grunt of pure disgust Christopher Smith stalked past his errant son off down the hall. Todd trailed slowly after.

“I want you in my office, first thing in the morning.” Packenham snarled, before stalking the other way and slamming the door to his office open and closed again in his wake. Mulgrave followed suit and stormed off, presumably to his own office.

“Are you okay?” Greg reached out and put a hand on Peter’s shoulder. He was trembling quite violently.

“No, but I will be.” Peter took Daniel’s hand and pulled him close until his back was tucked up against Daniel’s front. “I can’t believe I just did that.”

“You did amazingly.” Daniel kissed his hair. “I couldn’t have done that.”

“I think my knees have…” Peter’s voice trailed off, posture stiffening.

Todd had reappeared at the end of the hall. He nervously took a couple of steps forward. The utter despair and hopelessness made him a heart breaking figure, standing there timidly at the end of the hall. He hadn’t cowered before his mate that way, but in some sense, at that moment Greg thought Peter held more power over Todd Smith than Dr Christopher ever had.

Peter lifted his chin aggressively.

“Peter,” Greg said quietly, “be kind.”

Peter lowered his chin, but his “Yes?” was still quite curt.

“I know you don’t want anything to do with us right now,” Todd replied shakily. “But I just thought that maybe, that you might…” He trailed off and held out his hand.

After a moment’s hesitation Peter accepted the battered photograph.

“Just in case you do one day want something.” Todd gave a watery smile full of dejected acceptance of the situation. “At least this way you have one baby photograph.”

At that moment Greg thought Todd Smith was the bravest person he’d ever met.

The pained bravery must have affected Peter a little too, because he looked down at the photograph of him and Todd smiling in the garden, and flipped it over.

“Todd and Mouse, age two and a half.” He read off the back. “Mouse?”

“Jeremy, Jerry, Mouse. Even then, you already loved cheese.” Todd’s voice wavered, but he pushed through.

Peter nodded without saying anything, turning the photo over again to study the front. Taking it as a dismissal, Todd gave Greg and the other officers a nod, and reluctantly turned to go.

“I still do.” Peter said suddenly, as Todd rounded the corner.

The Omega paused to look back.

“Like cheese.” Peter clarified without looking up. “I just need some time.”

“Take as much as you need.” It cost Todd to say it, but he made the effort. “And some day, if you’re ready, call me?”

“I will.” Peter was still looking down, but from his voice, he was struggling just as much to hold back tears.

Todd hurried off, wiping stray drops from his cheeks as he disappeared from sight.

“Take me home.” Peter whispered to Daniel.

“Yeah, sure.” Daniel tucked an arm around Peter’s waist to hold him close as they walked.

“I’ll show you another exit.” Dimmock offered. “So you won’t have to go past them.”

“They’ll be worse than ever now.” Sally waited until the trio were out of hearing range to speak. Her eyes were dark, almost black in her face where she leant against the wall. “Packenham and Mulgrave. They’ll be out for your blood now.”

Greg sighed and nodded tiredly. “I know.”

“Kid saved your arse. Without him, you’d be out on the street before you could clear your desk.”

“I know.” Greg repeated.

“Any excuse, anything, and they will take you down.”

Greg looked up at her and gave a world weary smile. “I’ll just have to not give them that reason then.”

Sally watched him intently, face unreadable. “We’ll see.”

She pushed off the wall and headed back to her desk without saying anything else. Greg couldn’t say he blamed her.

~*~

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	37. Chapter 37

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, we're almost at the end. That is... really getting scary. 
> 
> I know some people were worried about the ending. I won't say that there's a happy ending, just because I know that for different people that might range from Greg and Mycroft agreeing on the baby name to Mycroft begging on his knees sobbing that he'll never be able to live without Greg and please, please, please love him forever. I will however say there's is a happy ending at the end of the Series and that there is a... hopeful and uplifting ending to this episode? 
> 
> No particular warnings for this chapter.

“I think Donovan’s avoiding me.” Greg munched on a biscuit while the kettle bubbled its way to boiling in the background.

“Are you surprised?” John snorted from the kitchen.

“Suppose not.” Greg sighed. “She’s still a bit… pissed off at me.”

“I repeat: are you surprised?” John idly threw the tea bags into the waiting mugs.

“Suppose not.” Greg leant back in his chair. “But it has been-”

“You were a gnat’s wing away from being sacked and your job is still not exactly what I would call secure for no good reason.” John spoke over him. “You risked everything and you know it. You were a hairsbreadth away from gaol. That’s not going to be fixed in a few weeks.”

“Mycroft wouldn’t have let me go to gaol.” Greg denied confidently.

“You hope.” John muttered back darkly. “Not everything is in his control, you know, and coppers have a hell of a time in lock up.”

“He wouldn’t have.”

John didn’t bother arguing. He poured the tea instead.

“Do you think it’s too soon?” Greg called over the tea spoon clinking against the ceramic rim as John poured.

“Too soon for forgiveness?”

“No, for her to be over Anderson.” Greg picked up another Digestive.

“Oh, cause the answer to the former was yes, by the by.” John carried in the mugs.

Greg rolled his eyes and ignored John’s unsubtle complaints. He supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised that John’s Alpha nature had flared up, leaving the army doctor almost as mad at Greg as his sergeant. At least John was keeping it restrained to blatant reminders that Greg had been out of line. Sally was glaring at him whenever no one else could see and being 100% professional the rest of the time. Always 100% professional without as much as a friendly smile.

“And the latter?” He asked, accepting the tea.

“I think she loved him despite everything and it’s highly unlikely she will have actually moved on, yes.” John settled himself in his own armchair. “Why?”

“She and Dimmock are acting strange. They’re all chummy all of a sudden.” Greg slurped his tea loudly, earning a disgruntled look for his lack of manners.

“They’re your two most loyal supporters at the Yard, from what you’ve said, and they both almost saw you get fired, and prosecuted, and are well aware your arse was saved by a twenty year old kid and a liberal amount of luck. Of course they’re going to be looking to each other.” John tsked.

“Yeah, please, do tell me again how my arse was saved by the kid, John. I haven’t heard enough about it already.” Greg rolled his eyes. “It was the right thing to do.”

“You practically challenged a Dom over him.” John’s voice vibrated between hot and cold anger. “You were way out of line, IA would not have supported you at all, and for fucks sake Greg, you’re a Sub. How did you think that was going to go down?”

“It was the right thing to do, and we went over this weeks ago, at the time, at volume, remember?” Greg deliberately slurped his next mouthful loudly. It didn’t annoy John as much as Mycroft, but it was something.

“Yeah, right fine.” John flashed his teeth at Greg, either in an attempted smile or a deliberate grimace. “So what does bring you here on your lunch hour mid-week? Clearly not Sherlock.”

“I’m in enough shit at the Yard without him, thanks.” Greg snorted. “No, um, the other one.”

“Mycroft?”

“Mmm.” Greg hummed in agreement.

“So what’s up?” John brushed stray crumbs of his brown cardigan.

“Just haven’t heard from him for a bit.” Greg shrugged as nonchalantly as possible. “That’s all.”

John’s eyes narrowed. “How far along is he again, roughly?”

“About thirty something weeks.” Greg did some very quick, very rough maths.

“Right…” John continued studying Greg intently.

“What?” Greg shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

He’d known he’d messed up not to hear from Mycroft for so long and it was making him feel more antsy than he liked to let on. The night before he’d snuck into Mycroft’s room and stolen a pillow case when, around midnight, he’d still been too wound up to sleep. Waking up that morning with the fabric scrunched over his face and realising exactly what lows he’d sunk to, he decided being needled by the angry Alpha was worth it to get to speak to his sort-of-brother-in-law-and-resident-Holmes-expert John.

“It’s unusual.” John replied neutrally. “Around the third trimester most Omegas start wanting their Alphas close – variant on nesting instinct – but then, Mycroft’s not exactly most Omegas.”

“No,” Greg agreed. “He’s certainly not.”

“So what did you do?” John gave him a faintly accusatory glare.

“What, me?” Greg spluttered in indignation. “Why do you automatically assume this is something I did?”

“I would have expected harassing phone calls, blatant misuse of the CCTV, a well-deserved lecture about your recent behaviour that you clearly haven’t had from your continuing unrelenting refusal to acknowledge the pointless risk, so, what did you do?”

There was a faintly walled off blankness about John’s features that reminded Greg that his friend or no, John was Mycroft’s family Alpha whether the other Dom liked it or not, and Greg was already not in the good books.

“Evil flourishes when good people stand by and do nothing.” He stubbornly misquoted, knowing it wouldn’t do him any favours, but unable not to. At John’s continued implacability and refusal to be diverted to a different argument, he sighed. “I may have sent him a rather irate email. That he deserved!” He hastily tacked on the end.

“Deserved in the general or the specific?” John asked. His voice had shifted and his question had a ‘what did _He_ do now’ tone about it.

“He said I had got, his words not mine, to do the nursery and wasn’t that enough grace and favour from my Lord and Master to be going on with.”

The thought still lit a fire in his ribcage, smouldering below his heart and the stone knot constricting it.

“I may have paraphrased that last bit.” He admitted, rubbing the spot.

“And that was the last you heard from him.” John concluded. “Okay, he deserved that, but I wouldn’t have expected radio silence for…”

“Over a month.” Greg supplied.

“Over a month.” John repeated, in a slightly disbelieving tone. Or maybe it was shock, Greg couldn’t tell.

“I may not have been all that… diplomatic… in my response.” Greg allowed. “It was right after visiting Cambridge and being suspended and… I wasn’t in a good mood.”

John didn’t say anything. John didn’t say anything _loudly_.

“I kinda went off at him about it and may have,” Greg took a deep breath and focused on picking his nail “told him that his family were all bastards and never getting their claws into my son to give him the same abusive upbringing they gave their own sons.”

“My upbringing was not _abusive_.”

The temperature in the room dropped several degrees, and despite the blazing sun Greg felt a shiver run down his spine. Eyes slowly rising from his worried hangnail, he was met by the hostile frozen image of Sherlock Holmes in the doorway. If looks could kill, Greg would never have had time to look up and see his murderer.

“Sherlock.” Greg swallowed heavily. “Look, mate, I know it’s not easy, but we’re all friends here and you don’t”-

“My family did _not_ abuse me.” Sherlock spat.

Greg’s eyes flicked to John for support, but he was determinedly studying the skull propped on the mantelpiece, keeping well away from the frigid argument between his Bonded and Greg. Greg took a deep breath in and wished Sherlock didn’t look so severe in his narrow cut black suit and charcoal shirt. It highlighted the angles in his face, the grey in his eyes, and the dull angry flush spreading across his cheeks. He was intimidating enough without it all.

“How your family treated you-” Greg began carefully.

It was as far as he got before Sherlock had stormed out of the room, door slamming over Greg’s words.

“Yeah, well done mate.” John took a deep hitching breath in with the sudden break in tension.

“Oh come on, it was wrong and I know you agree with me.” Greg growled.

“Yes, but I wasn’t going to tell him I thought he’d been abused to his face.” John protested.

“Their Sire Dommed him so severely he almost broke your Bond to follow that order years after the prick was dead.” Greg fumed. “You saw the state of him, that’s clear and lingering abuse of power.”

“That’s not the-” John cut himself off and took some shuddering breaths, fists clenched. “I am very aware what it means, Lestrade, and I am dealing with it.”

“But-”

“You just told the second most arrogant being in London, no, England, that you think he’s a victim.” John stared back at him with forced calmness overlaying building anger. “Do you really think that helped?”

“But he is.” Greg floundered.

John closed his eyes and fell heavily back into his chair mouthing profanities he didn’t vocalise.

“Have you learnt nothing,” he eventually demanded, “from dealing with that abuse case of yours for the last few months?”

Greg bristled in his seat.

“Greg, trust me, most people who are being abused by their partners, or parents, or whoever, don’t admit it. They walk into doors, they develop severe dizziness and fall and hit their heads, they’ve taken up new sports. I see it all the time. I’ve had patients try and convince me they broke fingers gardening and none of them, none of them, admit it or react well if you confront them about it head on.” John’s face was stern, his eyes contradictorily pleading.

“Peter didn’t deny it.” Greg refuted stubbornly. “He’s even prosecuting.”

“Exception that makes the rule. He couldn’t exactly deny it after what you’d found, with a confession from his abuser.” John countered. “He’d hidden it up to then, and I don’t doubt he tried to downplay aspects of it.”

Greg flexed his jaw, but couldn’t deny it.

“No one likes to be a victim, to be powerless.” John continued. “It’s no wonder you have heard from Mycroft.”

“What do-”

“Greg, you’ve apparently told the _most_ arrogant, self-obsessed, controlling, power-hungry Dom in England, no, no, the _World_ , to his face, that you think he’s a powerless overcompensating victim. He’s not going to write back.”

“He is over-”

“Of course he’s overcompensating!” John yelled at him. He struggled to get his composure back before continuing. “That doesn’t make throwing it in his face any better a decision.”

John sighed heavily and wiped a tired hand across his eyes. “You’re going to have to apologise, to both of them.”

“I can’t.” Greg shook his head.

“Greg, the Earth will fall into the sun before the Iceman melts enough to contact you now you’ve done this. You have to.”

“I _can’t_.” Greg stressed, willing John to understand why he’d forced himself not to try and contact Mycroft first. “I can’t, not this time. I always break first and back down and if I walk away from what I said this time… he’ll own me John.”

“Someone has to be the better person.” John countered. “Mycroft is undeniably great, but he’s even further from good than Sherlock.”

“I can’t.” Greg repeated.

“You can’t make your son the battle ground for your issues. He’s a person, not a thing to fight over.”

“I’m not the one who made him into one!” Greg denied. “It’s not just about what Mycroft said, John, it’s whether I have more or less say than his ruddy family, who will treat them both like shit, and if I do give in now, again, how do I stop Mycroft when Mummy sends him to boarding school before he’s in double digits? What then?”

“I don’t know.” John admitted.

Greg slumped. “It can’t be that bad, can it?”

“Did you want to see your son?” John asked flatly. “I wouldn’t put it past Mycroft to just hand the baby over to Mummy, full stop. Of course, the person who might have been able to hazard a guess has just stormed out.”

“I can’t give in again.” Greg warned.

“Is apologising for your delivery the same thing?” John’s eyebrow challenged Greg to put his pride first and say yes.

“I have to get back to work.” Greg stood and picked up his jacket.

“Think about it.” John called after him. “Lord knows, one of you has to.”

* * *

_Sunday 24/7/11 10:10 pm_

_To: Mycroft Holmes <diklr_3496@whitehall.gov.uk>_

_Subject:_

_Mycroft,_

_I know there’s a very high chance you’ve already deleted this or it’s just sitting there unread, but on the off chance you haven’t I’d like to apologise for my last email. I wasn’t in a good place, not an excuse I know, but after that day I just couldn’t handle your email. So I am very sorry for the way I said things._

_I can’t apologise for what I said, though I’d like to be able to. I don’t like how your parents did things and I will not let our son be treated like that._

_I hope everything’s going well,_

_Greg Lestrade_

* * *

_Friday 5/8/11 7:21 pm_

_To: Mycroft Holmes <diklr_3496@whitehall.gov.uk>_

_Subject:_

_Mycroft,_

_No idea whether you got my last email. Well, you got it, but I don’t know if you read it._

_If you didn’t, I’m sorry for how I said what I said._

_I thought I should explain things a bit better – my reaction and all the rest._

_I’m going to assume you weren’t totally up to date with what I was doing and that you didn’t really bother to find out after. I don’t blame you. I probably wouldn’t have. So that day I was up at Cambridge, as I think I mentioned, to …_

_…and it just aggravated me so much. Just because he was an Omega and a Sub they were trying to dictate everything for a son they’d effectively never met and refusing to listen to anyone else. It just made me so angry! If we’re being totally honest, and I suppose that’s the point, it made me think of Sherlock and how bloody unfair it all is, the way your Sire still almost screwed up his son’s life from beyond the grave, and then I got home after being yelled at and suspended pending firing and that email from you, I just flipped._

_It’s not our son’s name, Mycroft, it’s a declaration to me and your family who is raising this child: you and me or you and them. Well, more to me I suppose. I doubt your family’s ever thought about it, obedience assumed._

_Sorry, I’ll stop. I suppose not getting on with the in-laws is fairly normal, much too normal for us, euh? …_

_… but it’s sorted now, sort of. Sally will come around, I hope._

_Started reading the books again. Has he kicked yet? I’m assuming yes, ages ago. You would tell me if something had gone wrong, yeah?_

_Greg Lestrade_

* * *

_Wednesday 10/8/11 7:38 am_

_To: Mycroft Holmes <diklr_3496@whitehall.gov.uk>_

_Subject: Please don’t delete_

_Mycroft,_

_Haven’t heard back from you, which is okay, your choice, but I really wanted to get a chance to say sorry and know it got through, so hope you haven’t deleted this._

_I’m sorry I said your family was abusive and implied they abused you. I won’t lie and say that from what I know I don’t think they’re not all prats, but still sorry._

_Yes, your brother gets included. I care about Sherlock dearly, but he is a prat._

_Greg Lestrade_

* * *

_Saturday 13/8/11 9:01 am_

_To: Mycroft Holmes <diklr_3496@whitehall.gov.uk>_

_Subject: I’m sorry I said your family was abusive and implied they abused you. I won’t lie and say that from what I know I don’t think they’re not all prats, but still sorry._

_In case you deleted the last one._

_Greg_

* * *

_Saturday 13/8/11 7:53 pm_

_To: Mycroft Holmes <diklr_3496@whitehall.gov.uk>_

_Subject:_

_Mycroft,_

_Sudden thought, you haven’t blocked me have you? I’m not going through some government spam filter straight to the trash?_

_Greg_

* * *

_Sunday 14/8/11 1:05pm_

_To: Mycroft Holmes <diklr_3496@whitehall.gov.uk>_

_Subject: To the spam filter and beyond!_

_Mycroft,_

_I’ve decided I’m going to assume that you’re getting these and that you’re, if not reading them, at least saving them for one day when you’re not so mad at me. On that premise, if you’re not so mad at me and thus reading them, I am going to write normally, about my life, and pretend you’ve asked questions to answer._

_Your brother is still not speaking to me. John tells me it’s my own fault. We eventually agreed to not discuss it any further. It was more diplomatic I think._

_In other news, the Yard is still about the most uncomfortable place I can imagine on the planet right now. I’m making that assumption based on the fact that if I were with you we’d probably just yell at each other until we sorted this out, and because every time Sherlock ends up in the same place as me he leaves, so I think it’s valid. My bosses both hate me, my subordinate is angry and slightly pedantically overprotective at the moment, and Dimmock is helping her. I actually caught them sneaking extra copies of procedural forms into my desk the other day, so I didn’t run out and forget to complete them. That’s the level they’re stooping to._

_If I’m pretending everything is normal, then I might as well ask if there’s any toy in particular you want for the nursery. I’ve already sent a list of some stuff to Anthea, I assume you’ve seen it, but if there’s something you had when you were young you want him to have too, let me know and I’ll look into finding one. So far Winnie the Pooh, Paddington Bear, Teddy Robinson, and a floppy bunny are all on the list, but if you want something else, just say. Oh, and Thomas the Tank Engine. And Postman Pat. You know, the classics._

_Not the actual classics, mind. No Machiavelli until he’s thirteen, in English or Italian._

_Regards,_

_Greg_

* * *

_Saturday 20/8/11 10:24 am_

_To: Mycroft Holmes <diklr_3496@whitehall.gov.uk>_

_Subject: My Family and Other Animals_

_Mycroft,_

_So, it occurs to me I haven’t actually told you anything about my family. I assume you know it all, you undoubtedly have a file on me somewhere three inches thick, but I can’t expect you to say much if I haven’t, yeah?_

_So, the story of Gregory Francois Lestrade. I’ll skip the obvious stuff, birthday yada yada. So, my Da …_

_… and it’s still sad he died so soon after my graduation. Have you ever seen the photo of us there? What am I saying, it’s in my room so you probably noticed it months ago. He was a great man, my Uncle. I wish he could have lived to see me have kids, but we couldn’t tell him anyway, in the end, could we?_

_Sorry, I’ve gone and depressed myself. I’ll write more later._

_Regards,_

_Greg_

* * *

_Saturday 27/8/11 12:03 am_

_To: Mycroft Holmes <diklr_3496@whitehall.gov.uk>_

_Subject:_

_Mycroft,_

_Dragged Jonh to a match. We won, wooo! Am a bit srunk, but wanted to say I love you, still, dispite evrything._

_Greg_

* * *

_Saturday 27/8/11 2:47 pm_

_To: Mycroft Holmes <diklr_3496@whitehall.gov.uk>_

_Subject:_

_Oh, God, can we just ignore that last one?_

* * *

_Thursday 1/9/11 8:17 pm_

_To: Mycroft Holmes <diklr_3496@whitehall.gov.uk>_

_Subject: Baby_

_Mycroft,_

_So according to the baby books our baby can now hear things! I assume being you that you’re playing him lots of classical and all that stuff as well as talking to him, cause he can hear you. He can actually hear you! I hadn’t realised that. According to QI, shush I can hear you, babies can recognise accents because of this. They did studies and all that. I’ve included the link to the episode, John sent it to me. I know you won’t watch it, but hey, might as well be polite and offer, euh? (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s0EoL2eKZas &list=PL5267AA6059413BD1) He’s also capable of REM sleep now, which is sweet. He can dream. I wonder what babies dream about? Wouldn’t that be interesting to find out? Might tell us something fundamental about human beings. _

_Apparently you’re also likely to be feeling tired and sore. Sorry for that. I’d offer a back rub, but… well, that’s kind of obvious isn’t it. Can you see him moving? I’ve read that elbows and knees can be seen when he punches and kicks._

_Okay, sorry, I’ll leave the biology there. There’s a new movie out about …_

_… hope everything’s good._

_Greg_

* * *

Greg sighed as he trudged down the familiar street from the tube to 221B. By rights he should have been as happy go lucky as the rest of London, all turned out in summer spaghetti straps and short shorts to enjoy the blast of warm weather and sunshine.

Heat waves tended to go one of two directions with crime: either the perpetrators were at the park enjoying the sunshine or at home sweltering with the rest of the population and so were otherwise occupied, or the Yard had a crime wave to match the temperatures. This one had so far erupted into a burgeoning crime spree and if the temperatures stayed high, or went higher, there would probably be a bountiful harvest of violent crimes as people moved from delighted with the novelty of summer to hot and bothered as tempers turned ugly.

As of yet, that hadn’t happened and there was only one case really demanding Greg’s attention, though there were a number of smaller and on-going cases still in limbo. Of course, as of yet he hadn’t had a response from Mycroft and Sherlock still wasn’t speaking to him, so the calm before the storm didn’t improve his mood any. If he was lucky, very lucky, Sherlock might condone to talk to him long enough for Greg, or John, to present the case to him and he _might_ consider it puzzling enough to work on it anyway.

Greg wasn’t so hopeful, but with no leads and two dead bodies showing marked similarities, a potential serial killer was not something he wanted to have to deal with on his own. Besides, Sherlock _liked_ serial killers, clever ones at least. It was the closest thing Greg could come up with to a perfect apology present, hence his slow trudge up the street. Sally had knocked off early, going to interview a potential witness and then to an appointment so he wouldn’t have to deal with any warnings about trying to throw himself under the metaphorical bus and commit another shining example of career suicide. Packenham and Mulgrave were unlike to countenance ‘that freak Omega’s’ presence on the scene in their current moods, even if they did catch a killer.

Not that there was any guarantee Sherlock would talk to him, or that he would accept the case from John knowing it came from the Yard via Greg.

Sherlock was the master of Epic Sulks, capitals included. If he’d been a Greek god Greg doubted the ancient civilisation would have survived to invent half of what it had. Known as they were for destroying empires or creating storms on whims of fate and emotional snarl, the ancient gods could still have taken lessons from Sherlock Holmes.

This was why the sight that greeted Greg when he rounded the corner and started to trudge the short distance from intersection to building was so surprising. After literal years of snarking, insulting, and otherwise attempting to break the other’s morale by any means just short of physical violence, the last thing Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade expected to see approaching the doorway of 221B was Sherlock Holmes enjoying a casual, non-destructive, conversation with Sally Donovan.

No yelling, no screaming, no death threats, no insults or name calling, no withering glare designed to scorch earth within twenty feet of its target, just two people, talking intently while John Watson struggled to get the door open.

Apparently it wasn’t just drunk he had trouble with the front door.

Greg thought his reaction, stopping dead and staring while wondering whether the apocalypse had come, and if so did he have time to see Mycroft ever again before England burned ahead the Four Horsemen’s fatal ride, while feeling just a little bit faint, was fair. Sleep deprived… he was clearly sleep deprived. Hallucination.

Naturally Sherlock was the first to see him. With an arrogant toss of his curls that translated very easily into ‘I’m still not speaking to you and you will be lucky if I ever suffer your presence again, peasant’ he strode past John, who had finally managed the door, and into the flat. Sally followed after, failing totally to see Greg standing on the pavement in absolute shock. When she didn’t fly through the air and land on her arse having been unceremoniously tossed out a few seconds later, Greg’s world started to go a little grey around the edges.

“Come on, Greg.” John pulled at his elbow gently. “Let’s go get a drink.”

“I’m hallucinating.” Greg was still staring at the building. No sudden arguments or bodies exited the windows.

“Come on. Pub.” John tugged him again and guided him around the corner to back to the Beehive.

With the nice weather all the outdoor seating was full as people soaked up as much of the sun’s radiance as possible. The flowers in the pots didn’t appear to be enjoying the weather as much and were beginning to look a little wilted, but it hadn’t stopped the after work crowd stripping off jackets and rolling up sleeves.

Rather than fight for a seat outside, though Greg knew John did enjoy the warm weather and still suffered in the depths of winter after so long in Afghanistan, he led them inside and guided them into a table at the back. Instead of beer, John ordered a pot of tea when the waiter came over, barely before they were seated.

“So I’m hallucinating?” Greg asked once the waiter had gone. “Is it some sort of separation anxiety or something?”

“No, not hallucinating.” John gave a light chuckle. “They are actually being civil and working together.”

“Right.” Greg tried not to feel to glum. He wasn’t sure it didn’t show on his face.

“It’s not because he’s not speaking to you.” John Watson was occasionally as good at deducing the emotional stuff as all Holmeses were bad. “You don’t need to feel replaced or anything.”

“Course not.” Greg smiled politely at the Beta who filled their water glasses, and took a self-conscious gulp. “Been trying to get them to peacefully co-exist for years. Just shocked they finally are, that’s all.”

John nodded and kindly didn’t pull Greg up on it. “I was a bit shocked as well. Apparently she asked to meet him the morning before, well…”

“Before he stopped speaking to me?” Greg raised an eyebrow and John grinned sheepishly in agreement.

“Yeah, he was probably looking forward to telling you all about how he’d deigned to help her out, since she’d finally shown enough sense to throw of the shackles of idiocy and acknowledge his superior abilities. He certainly sounded eager enough coming up the stairs… before.”

Greg pulled his mouth in a sideways almost smile without meeting John’s eyes. Luckily the pot of tea arrived and John busied himself as mother.

“So what have they been getting up to?” Greg asked with only slightly forced cheer.

It was patently ridiculous, the hollow feeling in his chest. He knew that, especially as if what John said was correct Sherlock had already been planning on working with Sally before Greg had miss-stepped. It didn’t make it easier not to feel replaced, like an old toy thrown out for the new once it got a tear.

“Trying to find some Sub, apparently.” John shrugged. “I wasn’t really paying attention to that one. From the way Sherlock described it it’s a fairly boring case with a lot of legwork, just tracking down where he’s run off to and trying to find some evidence or something or other. No real mystery.”

“Bob Carr.” Greg supplied a name.

“Yeah, that’s the one.” John took the offered milk jug once Greg was done and added his own.

“It’s Sally’s pet case.” Greg told him. “She’s trying to prove Carr’s ex-Dom guilty of the murder of a volunteer at the shelter. We’ve bunged him up on drug charges, but it’s not enough closure for her and Carr’s missing.”

“Fair enough.” John nodded. “Sherlock’s got the homeless network out, so we’ll see if anything comes back. There’s not a lot of thinking involved, another reason I think he took it to show off for you. ‘Look at me; I can play nice with the other kids’. That kind of thing.”

Greg snorted. “Sherlock?” He asked incredulously.

“Don’t underestimate what your opinion means to him.” John gave him a stern look. “You think he’d still be hurt and pissed off if you were Anderson? He’d have flayed you alive on the spot and then insulted your attempts to protest before moving on to your antecedents and finally ignoring your existence.

“Sally got rid of Anderson, this meant enough to her to come to him and, I assume, make enough of a case to convince him to not only show up to the meeting, but also to hear her out in the first place. It’s a big move for both of them, and Sherlock’s not totally daft. He knows you’ve wanted them to get along better for years.”

“He wouldn’t have done it just for that.” Greg sent back a sternly disbelieving stare.

“No. I suspect he also is aware it’ll give him more access to the Yard and the really juicy cases, or maybe he just wanted to have one up on Sally to hang over her head, who knows. Oh blast.” John blotted up the spill with a napkin.

“So if you’re not involved in this search, why were you out with them today?” Greg’s eyes narrowed over his tea cup.

“That’s why Sherlock likes you.” John smiled at him innocently. “Occasionally you notice things.”

It wasn’t really right that such a strong, and therefore dangerous, Alpha Dom could look so cute. With his big eyes and smile lines John looked cuddly, too cuddly to be anything as safe as he appeared, though most silly prey - people, he meant people - wouldn’t realise that.

“So where was today’s outing too?” Greg smiled back, letting himself fall into the arrogant swagger he adopted to appear more Dominant when he needed to posture.

John laughed properly and broke the challenge before it could grow, even teasingly. Such was the power of a strong Dom. It cost him nothing to shift them sideways, no face saving required.

“You’re really lucky, you know.” His smile was open this time, not overly angelic, just natural. “There are some real jerks in your life, God knows I’m Bonded to one of them, but there are a lot of people around you who care about you far too much as well.”

Greg gave him an arch look. “Don’t start with the Silver Fox thing or else.”

“Not what I meant, but that too.” John giggled. “Sally figured you’d be coming to Sherlock sooner or later about your potential serial killer. She’s also aware of your rather antagonistic relationship with him at the moment and even more precarious position at work, so she figured she’d come first.”

“Seriously?” Greg asked bewildered.

“Yep.” John re-filled Greg’s water glass. “She’s much more subtle about it too. Took Sherlock to the crime scenes after hours over the last few days, Molly today for the bodies. Don’t think she wanted you to know what she was up to, you know, plausible deniability, and,” John took a deep breath, “let’s you both pretend she isn’t babysitting you.”

“She’s not babysitting me.” Greg denied, realising as he said it how it sounded.

“And I don’t babysit Sherlock at all.” John smiled charmingly in the way that made his words automatically sarcastic. He had a truly amazing range of smiles, much as Mycroft did eyebrow arches.

“So has he found anything?”

“Some.” John admitted. “Sally’ll come to you for an arrest when they get that far, I’m sure, but the best thing you can do right now is go home. Let them worry at it until they’ve got the proof they need.”

Greg pursed his lips and then hid it behind his tea cup, taking several large swallows.

“Greg,” John’s voice was softly serious, “you’re not being left out or replaced or anything, it’s just right now this is best. This way you can tell your DCI with a straight face you didn’t ask Sherlock for help, you’ll have all the evidence you need, proper hard evidence not just deductions, and Sherlock gets to save face without letting this guy go free. He’s not ready to talk to you yet, but he will be.”

“Yeah, sure. So male suspect then?” Greg pressed.

John gave him a look.

“I’ll give him space. Seems to be all I’m doing.” Greg fiddled with his tea cup.

“No response?”

“No.”

“How about the match on the weekend? That card was bull.”

“Too right! I can’t believe the ref let that…”

* * *

_Tuesday 6/9/11 6:51 pm_

_To: Mycroft Holmes <[diklr_3496@whitehall.gov.uk](mailto:diklr_3496@whitehall.gov.uk)>_

_Subject: Slightly Stunned_

_Mycroft,_

_Okay, so I’m a little shocked. Was going to 221B today to see John and check whether Sherlock was talking to me yet cause there’s this case we really could use his help on and so far I’d been avoiding pulling him in because of the whole ignoring me thing, and I see him and Sally walking up from the other direction. Together. As in, not tearing at each other’s throats._

_John was a few steps behind so we diverted down to the pub while the two of them went inside, Sherlock with a rather snooty ‘I’m still not acknowledging your existence’ hair flick, and apparently Sally has actually been going to Sherlock for help with the case because she knows he’s not talking to me. As in, Sally Donovan, my sergeant, and your brother working together, willingly, with no additional blood on the floor._

_Not the first one either! Apparently he’s been helping her track down evidence for her pet legal aid murder case, or rather, been helping her try and find Bob Carr, with very little luck so far, but still!_

_It was strange, that almost proud feeling like the children are playing nice together, but still feeling a bit put out that you’re on the side line and excluded. It wasn’t pleasant. I should be happy they’re getting on, but it just feels a bit hollow, you know?_

Greg

* * *

_Wednesday 7/9/11 2:38 am_

_To: Mycroft Holmes <diklr_3496@whitehall.gov.uk>_

_Subject: Please_

_My,_

_Please, I really need to know you’re not going to make me feel that way in the future. Please, just some kind of sign that I’m not going to have to sit on the side and watch our son from a distance as he grows up._

_Greg_

* * *

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	38. Chapter 38

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, second last chapter! I'm sorry it's a day late. I spent yesterday in bed sick. Not the most fun place to be, but nothing too bad luckily. 
> 
> There are a number of wonderfully insightful comments on the previous chapters, so I'm going to break my not replying to try not to inflate the comment count rule and reply to them. I do find it interesting that every seems very outraged on Greg's behalf, and no one seems to think that that throwing the fact that you believe your lover and his brother were abused in their faces wasn't a good plan. I'm not saying you're wrong, I just find it interesting to see which way the audience's mood flows. 
> 
> There are no particular warnings for this chapter.

Arthur Dent had famously never got the hang of Thursdays. Greg felt at that moment like every day was Thursday, even though his calendar assured him it was Friday.

Talking to John had certainly not solved his problems. All it had done was make him feel guilty about the truth, feel like crap for compromising his principles to apologise without any response, and cause Sherlock to stop speaking to him. Greg was worse at home, not better, sneaking into Mycroft’s room to sleep every night. It was the only place he could rest, where his spring tight body would ease just slightly to let him let go.

Delving into the books had shown it was entirely natural, his Alpha body clock counting down to the birth and getting increasingly antsy that his pregnant, vulnerable Omega _was not there_ , but that didn’t help him deal with the need to saturate himself in Mycroft’s scent and make sure he was safe. The knowledge that Mycroft could ensure he was safer than Greg could ever manage didn’t help and after a really bad night on Tuesday Greg had found himself cradling the stuffed rabbit from the nursery buried deep under Mycroft’s covers, crooning to it and himself as he tried to fill the hollow ache. He’d been disgusted with himself Wednesday morning, but had left the stuffed animal in the bed and slept with it since.

Sally had gone out with Sherlock again after lunch, following some lead the two of them had ferreted out, but wouldn’t tell him. She hadn’t told him that was what she was doing, but the guilty, slightly ashamed air as she reported her afternoon movements was enough for Greg to put two and two together. She’d been embarrassed since she worked out he’d worked out what she was doing, and nice change from anger that it was, Greg would have preferred things to be back to normal so he could just go with her.

Dimmock must have been in on it too because he’d taken one look at Greg after a rather unsubtle update from Sally and had fled the office, stealing Whitely’s crime scene for a more effective escape.

The fact that no protest had been raised was characteristic of the half-reverent, half-pariah like state Greg seemed to have inspired in the office. Apparently his survival this time had rendered him mystical, legendary, in some way miraculous, to be revered in hushed voices.

It reminded Greg very quickly that in all the stories the hero or God or Chosen One was simultaneously held high as a figurehead and shunned as a human. Conversations stopped when he walked past, his requests were filled immediately, in total silence, and he didn’t even bother going to the informal pub nights after everyone had practically run out of the break room when he walked in.

Gregson was almost a breath of fresh air, the refreshing breeze of scathing comparative normality as he didn’t pussy foot around Greg, calling him names and trying to sneak his own forensic tests up the priority ladder with the lab. Greg took this in the spirit it was intended, threw names back, had the lab techs double cross Gregson, and last week had stolen Gregson’s apple from the fridge and eaten it brazenly in front of him while Gregson glowered during a budget meeting.

Reminding himself that as long as the killer was caught it didn’t matter who liaised with Sherlock and ran around London after the crazy idiot almost being killed was not easy as he slogged through the mess of paperwork, filling in yet more copies of PCF42. He stabbed his pen a little harder than necessary into the dot between his initial and last name. It didn’t really make him feel better.

He wasn’t quite sure whether his phone ringing was good or bad. It could be Sally calling to say they’d arrested the perp, whoever he or she was, or John to say Sherlock had accidently got himself arrested by Sally after mouthing off one too many times, or one of his rarely seen mates from outside the force. Hell, if he was going all out it could be one of his brothers or sister, though hell hadn’t frozen over yet so that wasn’t likely. He didn’t bother to check.

“Detective Inspector Lestrade.” Greg tried not to sound too bored. As neither the paperwork nor the call inspired much enthusiasm, he didn’t really succeed.

“Detective Inspector, might I suggest you collect your things and are waiting outside the Yard in exactly ten minutes. It would be advisable you do not plan on returning.” Anthea’s crisp professional tones flowed coolly over the phone. She had disengaged before Greg could open his mouth to reply.

Sitting bolt upright in his office chair had attracted some curious glances from those close enough to see. Grabbing his belongings and piling them into his pockets as fast as humanly possibly didn’t improve matters and a fairly large group was attempting not to stare as he raced out the door.

Unfortunately, Mulgrave was standing near the exit, making his way slowly through the pen, checking on various officers as he went. For Greg that meant no easy escape out the main door, and from where Mulgrave was currently paused between two blocks of desks the other route to the lifts was similarly open to potential observation. There would be no sneaking out and no easy explanations Greg could give.

“Lestrade,”

Greg’s bones jumped a foot in the air. Luckily his muscles froze so the rest of his body didn’t follow, though his heart felt like it did. Spinning revealed Gregson surveying him with a look of almost grumpy concern.

“You alright, Lestrade?” Gregson’s arm was outstretched, hand on Greg’s shoulder. He hadn’t even noticed.

“Yeah, fine, I’ve just,” Greg’s head swung involuntarily toward Mulgrave, “I’ve just got somewhere I need to be.”

Gregson’s eyes scanned over Greg’s jittery body, none of the usual swagger masking the seriousness of his gaze.

“This is all part of whatever’s been going on with you.” He concluded. “Oh don’t give me that, Lestrade. You don’t know shite about gambling – never have, never will. You’re certainly no addict.”

“Gregson…” Greg didn’t know what to say, heart keeping furious beat with the clock as he was fiercely aware of every second passing.

“Do you really need to go, now, no questions asked?”

Something in Greg’s crazy wild eyed panic answered for him as Gregson just nodded.

“Wait here. Try not to stick out like a sore thumb exiting the lobby.”

Gregson strode over to Mulgrave, an absolute picture of Alpha arrogance that always annoyed their chief, though usually he was too professional to act on it and Gregson was too professional to push. Whatever it was Gregson said however, soon had Mulgrave spitting chips as he goaded the Beta into a fight. During the resulting spectacle of Gregson being ordered into Mulgrave’s office, Greg slipped quietly out the back.

He just made it, the black car pulling smoothly into the kerb as he dropped all subtlety and sprinted the last few meters. He’d barely managed to close the door before the car pulled smoothly away.

Anthea’s polished exterior with not a hair out of place looked miles away from how Greg felt. If he’d stopped to think about it, he also would have suspected it was a mile away from how he looked.

“Is he okay? Has something happened to the baby?”

One hand was perched on the headrest, and to say he was sitting would have been a gross injustice to the existence of the word kneeling.

“No,” Anthea replied without looking up from her ever present Blackberry.

Assuming no was the answer to the second and not the first question, Greg slowly sank down into his seat and pulled his seatbelt on.

As in all of Mycroft’s soundproofed government cars, the silence inside was deafening, especially as Anthea’s smooth typing didn’t make a single tapping noise to break through the heavy air. The car’s passage down the road was soundless as not even the engine dared rise about its simple, gliding vibration.

“So uh, is this the point where I disappear never to be seen again, or do they find my body in an alley or floating down the Thames at some point?” Greg tried to sound light hearted about the concept, mainly to hide how fast his heart was racing and the sweat beading on his jittery hands.

“You will be able to return to work on Monday.” Anthea rolled her eyes.

“Great, just what I wanted to hear.” Greg dug his fingers into his thigh.

He hadn’t been worried Mycroft was going to have him disposed of, not until he’d jokingly asked the question and discovered it was really more semi-serious as his heart rate had skyrocketed. Truth be told, after months of silence it was all too easy to imagine Mycroft the British Government cleaning up loose ends.

He and John had previously had a _slightly_ inebriated discussion about The British Government and why he, not Moriarty, was still classified by Sherlock as the most dangerous person in Britain. Eventually they had concluded that the reason was that if pressed Mycroft could do anything to anyone just like Moriarty could, but that if Mycroft did it no one would even blink and it would all be government sanctioned.

Legitimate.

The only person who might possibly have been safe from the British Government was Sherlock, though all that seemed to mean was Mycroft wouldn’t let him be killed. Blackmail, manipulation and measures short of death neither of them had been able to rule out, though they’d both agreed the fate of the country would probably have to be at stake before the British Government would go that far, given the effort usually put into keeping Sherlock safe from those things.

As Sherlock’s Bonded, John was relatively untouchable. Greg usually considered himself fairly safe as well, confident Mycroft-his-friend would stop the British Government sacrificing him for the greater good until the stakes were well past when Greg, if given the option, would have thrown himself into the furore to try and save others. Mycroft seemed to be aware of this despite their never having spoken of it, and had, it appeared, kept Greg deaf and blind to a number of situations in the past where he might otherwise have tried to ‘get himself needlessly killed’ (do his job). When it came to other people’s lives Greg’s self-valuation was much lower than Mycroft’s and Mycroft seemed determined to protect him from ‘himself’ and his ‘idiotic heroism complex’.

Of course, he’d never had to contemplate what the British Government might do to him if he were a perceived threat while Mycroft was too pissed off to bend. Currently on the outs with Sherlock and with Sally happy to provide cases, Greg’s cards were rendered fairly close to useless.

It bothered him he was so unnerved he was thinking in pre-restaurant welcome-to-my-abandoned-warehouse power play themes. It was very disturbing.

“Would you please relax or fret less obviously.” Anthea’s voice conveyed her irritation in her usual polite, dismissive manner.

“Can you tell me I don’t have a reason?” Greg asked hopefully.

“I can lie, yes.” Anthea’s eyes flicked over her screen.

Greg winced.

“Right, thanks. That’s really going to help.” He turned his head to watch London stream past. “Can I ask you where you’re taking me?”

“You can ask.” Anthea replied neutrally.

“Will you answer?”

“No.”

“…Right…”

Not even Mycroft’s superb government driver/bodyguard could teleport them through London traffic. A particularly nasty intersection took half an hour of silence to clear and Greg positively itched for his police radio to check the accident report.

“How’s he been?” He asked softly as they moved again.

“Intolerable.” Her mind was clearly elsewhere.

“Was it bad?” He eventually asked, trying to assess the damage.

“Before or After?”

“Before.”

He chickened out. Anthea’s glacial eyebrow twitch showed she was aware of it too.

“Irritated. Impatient for the baby to be born. I do not believe he has been away from the office so long since he joined the Civil Service and even with remote access he has not been taking his enforced leave… well.”

In a less oppressive and nerve-wracked environment, Greg might have snickered at the genetic inability of the Holmeses to take a holiday. Instead he merely asked “Withdrawal symptoms?” in a stress-flattened tone.

“That is one way of putting it.” She muttered, fingers flying over the screen.

“Slightly…” Greg hesitated not sure whether completing his sentence would sign his not-yet-valid death warrant should Mycroft ever find out.

“Hormonal?” Anthea had no such worries. “Mycroft Holmes is above mere physiological influences and is in total control of everything.”

Definitely hormonal, Greg winced, and it appeared Anthea had been fielding the worst of it. For the first time he wondered whether he might in fact have been better off safe in London with Mycroft… elsewhere … terrorising the world.

“And, um, After?” He asked, aware he probably didn’t want to know the answer.

“I spent three weeks attempting to apologise to various politicians and dignitaries to prevent WWIII, or at least the breakup of the European Union and a repeat of the Hundred Years War.” Anthea’s voice went straight to his marrow and made Greg’s bones ache with cold. “How do you think?”

“Attempting?” Greg tried to sidestep the subject, slightly worried he’d managed to create an international incident.

“The Russians are holding out for increased concessions. He’ll have to deal with that himself later.”

Anthea must have been exhausted. It was the only explanation for the fact she’d let that slip, unless she was trying to give Greg some idea of the scale of the repercussions from his actions and Mycroft’s power. She certainly was frowning and blinking rapidly at her phone as she tried to focus on the screen.

“And, um, now? If I’m not being carted off to my death, _does_ that mean I’m forgiven?”

“The standing orders for anyone who sees you are to take any measures necessary to remove you permanently from the premises.” Anthea recited calmly.

“Oh,” Greg bit his lip, trying to keep the rest in.

He’d been hoping his presence maybe meant forgiveness was around the corner, or at least up for discussion. Hope seemed to be becoming an increasingly expensive commodity.

“So why am I here exactly?”

“Because I have the authority to ignore any and all orders I feel are contrary to his on-going health and safety, and based on his recent behaviour and medical advice I feel it is in his best interests for you to be present for the duration of his labour.”

“Labour?” Greg yelped, snapping to attention. “As in, Mycroft’s actually in labour?”

“For several hours now, yes.”

“Isn’t it too early? For the baby, he’s not ready yet.” Greg babbled in a state of shock filled panic.

It was too early. The baby wasn’t due yet, would he survive? Would he have brain damage? How premature would he be? What month was it? Greg scrambled to work out the date he’d been writing on the forms only two hours ago, but couldn’t remember it, let alone work out how long it had been since conception.

“The baby is at 39 weeks and so can be considered to term. He is not expected to suffer adversely from a 48 hour earlier than anticipated delivery.” There was a faintly exasperate note in her voice that sounded like Anthea was rolling her eyes.

“But…” Greg trailed off.

Anthea seemed to take pity on him.

“It’s September.” She reminded quietly.

Greg leant back, trying to work out whether they were really at that point of time already.

9th of September… apparently they were.

His baby boy’s birthday.

It had snuck up on him completely unawares. He’d been so focused on trying to resolve things with Mycroft and at work he’d never, in all the time he’d been living and fighting and loving with Mycroft, thought to ask what his due date was, let alone whether he could be there for the birth. It was some nebulous date out ahead of them, coming up so things needed to be done, but not something that would actually arrive!

He couldn’t sit still, nerves fluttering in his stomach and prickling along his skin making him antsy, He couldn’t settle, muscles jumping and twitching wither he wanted them to or not.

Anthea frowned even as she took the almost unprecedented step of taking one hand off her phone to rub at her forehead. Greg tried to tone down his fidgeting as she was clearly under a lot of strain.

“So what exactly do you do that you can just ignore Mycroft’s instructions?” Greg’s traitorous mouth asked.

Greg’s mind winced. Trying to avoid asking about Mycroft, the baby, Mycroft, the fact Mycroft was in labour, or Mycroft hadn’t meant he’d wanted to ask that.

Anthea’s mouth curled into a disappointed grimace, as though Greg had failed some test with that question. It was her only response.

More cars flashed past as their diver smoothly manoeuvred around the busy motorway traffic. Other than out of London, Greg still didn’t know where they were going.

“Why me?” He asked, voice cracking in his desperation to keep the silence at bay. “Shouldn’t you be getting his doctor or someone?”

“Dr Koen has been in residence for some weeks now.” Anthea replied. “Mycroft has all appropriate medical care he requires.”

She seemed frostily annoyed Greg would dare to think she hadn’t taken care of Mycroft’s health first.

“So, how do I fit into continuing health and safety then? I don’t think bringing stress and anger into the situation is quite what you’re meant to do.” Greg tried not to sound like he was begging for answers. He tried to stop his knee jiggling. He sort of managed the knee.

With an impatient sigh Anthea dropped her phone into her lap and turned to look at him. Close up the dark smudges under her eyes were bleeding through the worn concealer that had been reduced to a chalky cover on her skin. Her eyes seemed slightly swollen and bloodshot, surrounded by furrows that if she wasn’t careful were going to become permanently etched into her skin.

Greg instantly felt guilty about making her life more difficult, even if more difficult was only by pestering her with questions during an unrequested car ride.

“Do not expect him to admit it, but he has spent the months of your separation missing you. You’ve probably not noticed your tracksuit and one of your t-shirts are missing – he stole them from the laundry and wore them until they didn’t fit. When the scent faded, his mood descended rapidly into irritability, though he denied it of course. I had the movers fetch a scarf of yours – his general demeanour improved.

“After your fight he has refused to go near it, and his health has deteriorated rapidly to the point Dr Koen was called in to monitor his situation. Despite bringing forward the projected due date, the baby has still come early, though not early enough to cause damage to the child. A biological defence mechanism as his Alpha is not present. Dr Koen and I both believe that the potential for complications during the birth will be reduced if you’re present and there will be less stress for the baby.

“Besides which, both of you want to be together for this, but he is too pig headed and you are too scared to make it happen.” Anthea raised an eyebrow and turned back to her phone with clear ‘may I continue with my work now?’ derision.

Greg swallowed and turned back to the window.

“We have some distance to drive. I suggest you use the time to think.” Anthea switched the screen off and leant back with her eyes closed.

She looked like she was sleeping, but Greg had seen Sherlock and Mycroft do the same when thinking through complex problems and recognised the alert stillness, eyes flicking rapidly behind her eyelids.

Think. Time to Think. Greg had had nothing but time to think for the last few months.

Though, he supposed if he was honest, he hadn’t really thought, not like John had suggested, not like he presumed Anthea meant. He’d sort of skated around the thinking, accepting the surface solution because John was right and he didn’t believe Mycroft wouldn’t just hand their son over to Mummy. Not because Mycroft didn’t care, not because Greg doubted for a second that Mycroft would love their baby the first time he held him, but because Greg thought he would.

If Mycroft’s fleeing from his own house over the strength of his reaction to Greg proved anything, it proved that a Mycroft Holmes who felt was more dangerous than one who didn’t because a Mycroft who felt was afraid, and Mycroft Holmes was a dangerous person to scare. If Mycroft loved their son, and he would, he would either get rid of him, passing him off to Mummy to avoid being forced to feel, or he would lash out in some way, like he had when Greg had scared him with work.

Caring was not an advantage.

Trust, but in whom take care.

What did that mean though?

Greg supposed the reality was that he had been taking the easy path, the route of least resistance, precisely because it didn’t require thinking. Mostly because thinking meant he had to acknowledge things he didn’t want to. Thinking meant he had to face things, do things instead of sitting tight and complaining when they were thrown at him.

Because he couldn’t let Mycroft win this one, if that was even the right way to look at it. He let My run rampant over him and their relationship and he knew it, in some ways accepted it as his due for being pathetic enough to fall in love with a Holmes who didn’t love him and then walk into this farce of an agreement with his eyes and arms wide open, but he couldn’t let Mycroft do the same to their child. He could not let Mycroft dictate his, Greg’s, relationship with his son.

He’d put it off too long, he knew that. Gazing out the window as it started to rain, Greg knew he’d procrastinated and procrastinated and let Mycroft draw him away from the issue neither of them wanted to deal with time and time again, and now Mycroft was in labour (labour!) and they’d run out of time and _never talked_. Never talked about how they were and what they were and how they were going to raise a baby.

They’d both made demands, Greg’s counter to every protective iota of Mycroft’s, and they’d never tackled it long enough to see if there was a compromise, a way forward.

There was, there always was a way forward, but the largest obstacle was and always had been Mycroft and whether he would be willing to try, and Greg didn’t know. He’d been too angry, too scared, too desperate to hold on every time to push Mycroft over the edge, to jump off the cliff with him and see if together they really did fly or fall.

It made him sick to his stomach, dread curdling in his gut and thudding in his heart. He could feel the adrenaline, a sick burning sensation next to the genuine wholesome kick from the knowledge that right then, at that moment, his son was being born.

He hadn’t said ‘or what’ in his impassioned email to Mycroft because he had shied away from even the possibility it was real. Something inside had clung arrogantly to the belief that of course Mycroft would choose him, and now that was eaten away by the acidic sludge roiling in his belly.

Or what? What if?

He couldn’t leave, his baby would need him and there was no way to take him. Even if Greg forced a paternity test he’d be in no position to raise him; shepherded off to a secret government research facility to be poked and prodded, to work out why exactly he’d gone ‘wrong’. Mycroft! Mycroft would be in with him, or rather in a similar facility, possibly not the same one. They would probably take their son too, raising him in a controlled environment with test after test to find out whether he was ‘normal’, and if so why, and if not, why not?

Greg shuddered. They’d probably let him out into some low security facility fairly quickly; there was a limit after all to what they could do to him. He might even be allowed his son back if he wasn’t deemed any kind of corrupting influence, but he’d never work, never live under anything but government surveillance for the rest of his life, isolated in some village in the far north purpose built to house the members of the research facility.

Mycroft, Mycroft would never even get that. A Dominant Omega – Greg could imagine the tests: send him into Heat to be bred by Greg to see if the second baby was like the first; send him into Heat to be bred by some random Alpha to see what happened when two Doms went through Estrus together and what the baby was like. They’d probably drug him into oblivion as he was too strong for them to handle otherwise. Sadly, Mycroft would probably be safer in there if his secret was exposed then out in the world, might even have time to pop out a couple more babies for research before one of his enemies or slighted and bitter political allies managed to successfully ‘take care of’ him.

Any kind of idea of forcing things through officially was definitely out, even if Greg was willing to ignore the potential global fallout. Even at his most vengeful Greg couldn’t do that to Mycroft, let alone his son.

And he wouldn’t leave his son alone.

So what would he do? What did he _need_?

Commitment, Greg decided. He needed a commitment from Mycroft that he would _try_ to work on things. It was too much go ask for things to work outright, but Greg needed to know that Mycroft wasn’t going to back out and decide it, they, were too hard and he was just going to handball it all over to the Family and run. Some sort of sign, something.

Something to show this wasn’t Act III of the Mummy Show.

Maybe he was being unfair to his not-really-mother-in-law, maybe it was all Daddy Holmes, but Greg certainly couldn’t see any evidence that the Omega had tried to stop his Alpha, or even just show his sons that their Sire was wrong. No, until proven otherwise Mummy was as guilty as anyone in Greg’s mind and would _not_ get a third chance to screw up a Holmes for life.

He was asking a lot of Mycroft in one go. It was impossible to imagine that after thirty years Mycroft would finally decide to stand up to his Bearer and that he would take down his walls in one go.

Greg hoped. He prayed.

He doubted.

But what could he do? He didn’t have anywhere to go even if he was willing to leave. His flat was rented out to a young couple, which did at least mean he probably had more disposable income than he’d had since before he was married, but nowhere to live.

He could stay at Baker St for a bit. John wouldn’t turn him out and Sherlock would deal, but that didn’t solve his problems and wouldn’t mean he could take his son with him.

He could maybe get a smaller place; use the rent from the other one to offset the mortgage.

Would Sherlock help with Mycroft? He’d seemed pretty keen to get them sorted out before Greg had put his foot in it. Maybe, worst come to worst, Sherlock could take in the baby instead of Mummy. Then Greg could… work it out at the time, but it was a possibility! Maybe if he begged John enough, John would convince Sherlock to at least listen to Greg long enough to float the idea past him.

The Holmeses would never let their heir go willingly. They’d fight Greg every step of the way. He’d have to prove he had rights to the child. If Sherlock helped him… would Sherlock even manage to have any say? He was _only_ an Omega after all.

Greg groaned and held his head in his hands as he went round and round in his head.

He needed Mycroft to show him this would work, had to be given that notice because otherwise he didn’t know what would happen.

If not, if not he’d go to 221B and throw himself on Sherlock’s mercy. Move out of the house until he and Mycroft reached an agreement.

Mycroft was in labour.

An involuntary grin split Greg’s face, hidden by his hand even as his heart sped up and stress induced laughter threatened to break free.

His son was being born. His _son_. It didn’t seem possible that that slight swell would actually be a baby, kicking and screaming and alive and _real_. It didn’t seem possible that this theory, this mad idea was coming to actual physical expression, right now.

“Will we be there in time?”

Speech was almost father to the thought. No sooner had it occurred than the words were sliding in tense syllables off Greg’s tongue.

“Unless an unforeseen emergency arises requiring immediate attention, yes.” Anthea had one hand curled around her phone. “I will be notified if that becomes necessary. The birthing process can take over a day, especially for first children.”

“And Mycroft didn’t opt for an emergency c-section when he realised he’d gone into labour?” Greg had trouble believing that.

“He was well into labour before he realised they were actual contractions distracting him from his work, not merely Braxton Hicks contractions. Dr Koen believes its more stress than advisable for the baby unless it becomes medically necessary to perform the operation now.”

“I imagine that went down well.”

“The house is still standing.”

Greg’s lips twitched into a small smile and he turned back to the window to continue to battle his mixed feelings and let Anthea work.


	39. Chapter 39

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This seems to be a running trend. I am so sorry this is late. That fever that delayed Sunday's update... yeah, it came back for round two and this time my body just said fuck it and threw in the towel. Not such a nice day on Wednesday.
> 
> Here we are, final chapter! I'll put more notes at the end re-next segment etc, so for now, I hope you enjoy.
> 
> Warnings: Biology. (i.e. labour)

They’d turned off the road through ornate gates long before Greg caught sight of their destination. When he did his mouth fell open in shock. He’d realised the Holmes family was well off, but the house, mansion, coming into view…

“Is that a castle?” He asked eyes glued to the red brick structure nestled at the bottom of the rise.

The building was surrounded by trees, with irregular chimneys dotting the rooftop seemingly at random. Castle like turrets mixed with gabled roofs and what must have been a fortune in windows during the era of the window tax.

“No, it’s a Tudor manor house. Yes, it does belong to the Holmes Family estate. No, they are not in residence. Mummy prefers to live at Castle Ashby, so Compton Wynyates was commandeered for use.” Anthea pre-empted his next questions.

Greg wrinkled his nose. “Mycroft’s hiding at home? That can’t be very secure.”

“If he were visiting his family he would be at Ashby, otherwise he rarely ventures to his other properties. It is not within his usual patterns and does not require a paper trail to make use of the facilities.” Anthea stretched, preparing to leave the car that was pulling to a smooth halt at the front door.

“Mycroft owns a castle.” Greg undid his seatbelt and climbed out after her.

“The estate of the Marquess of Northampton is one of the most land rich in the English peerage.” Anthea strolled inside, not looking back to see whether Greg was following.

He was, right on her heels and attempting not to stare too much. Over the entrance were coats of arms with dragons and greyhounds and another device Greg missed the details of as he hurried after.

Anthea led him on a circuitous route that seemed counterintuitive until Greg realised the building was surrounding an open central courtyard that she was circumnavigating as she led him to Mycroft’s rooms. Greg wasn’t sure whether it was the best route or whether she was keeping him out of eyesight of anyone else who might see him crossing, especially when she pushed aside a wall hanging and led him up a narrow staircase.

“If someone else sees me-” He started.

“I will be outside the room and should you wish to go elsewhere I will accompany you.” She replied blandly. “We’re almost there.”

Indeed, as they turned the corner liquid French syllables crested the air before them, beautiful even in their obvious rudeness. The words following were not French, perhaps Russian or German, then something that sounded like Italian, all in Mycroft’s rich voice.

An Omega hurried out of the room just ahead, fingers clenched in what Greg assumed was frustration. He was also assuming that this was Dr Koen, Mycroft’s doctor, and that he was in fact an Omega, but given how testy most Alphas tended to get about their Omegas being around other Doms while in labour, Greg thought it was a fairly safe presumption.

“Oh Ingrid, thank God.” The Omega’s voice was weary. Up close he had bags under his eyes and a substantial proportion of silvered grey in the short brown curls. “You’ve brought him.”

“Any complications?” Anthea asked.

“He’s progressing faster than expected, but no, no medical issues as of yet.” Dr Koen dragged his fingers through his frazzled hair. He looked done in.

Knowing that if there was anything he needed to be informed of Anthea would let him know, Greg ignored the Q&A session with Mycroft’s harassed doctor. The panic from the car was pushed down inside now, manifesting only in his pounding heartbeat. It left his steps smooth and even as he calmly walked over, turned the knob, and went through the door.

The first thing that hit him was the smell. No longer the intoxicating siren call it had been when he last saw Mycroft, it had grown to be rich, pungent scent that sunk into every pore and yanked at his being. This was not something that could be ignored, and Greg’s head fell back against the door with a thud as his body revelled in the release.

This was what he’d been craving, what he needed so desperately. Words could not describe it. No wonder his reference books had failed so miserably.

The room was quite small and heavy with age, modern hospital equipment blinking incongruously around the walls, pushed back as far as possible to allow some walkway between. Most of the room was full of the bed – big, heavy and dark it appeared to be original, making it a Tudor piece centuries older than any of them combined.

Mycroft lay in the centre, flat on his back with his head fallen to the side, eyes shut. Already the almost chestnut hair was sweat soaked, giving the fine strands the darker brown-black of charcoal. He looked exhausted. Even from the door Greg could make out the slight puffiness under his eyes where sallow skin gave way to purple red smudges.

There was a slight looseness to his skin, as though Mycroft had gained and lost weight rapidly. He was gaunt, not emancipated, but for the first time the suggestion of Sherlock’s highbrow prominent cheek bones could be seen on his brother’s face and there was a distinct hollowness around his collarbones. In fact the only two areas that had maintained their usual plumpness were his chest, now filled out just slightly in preparation for the baby, and his rounded stomach.

The baby bump was massive. No longer a slight pudginess or hard swell, it was a fully developed baby, made more prominent by the drape of the birthing gown Mycroft was swathed in. Greg could have starred at that sight for 100 years and never have had his fill.

“I told you to leave.” Mycroft’s mouth twisted into an unhappy moue of discomfort.

“Yes, you do seem quite determined to chase your staff away. Heard that from the hall.”

Mycroft’s eyes flew open. He attempted to sit up in the same move, but fell back the couple of inches he’d managed with a pain filled grimace.

“Don’t do that you idiot.” Greg scolded him.

He was drunk. It was the only explanation for his chastising tone and brazen confidence as he walked over to the bed: drunk on Mycroft, stress, adrenaline and relief.

“Ingrid.” Mycroft hissed angrily.

“Apparently you’ve been intolerable and owe Russia an apology.” Greg rearranged the piles of cushions and helped Mycroft into a more upright incline.

“They were being unreasonable.” Mycroft relaxed into the feathery support with a sigh.

“Of course they were. Nothing to do with you at all.” Greg replied tartly, before hurrying to occupy himself with the light bed sheet, pulling it over Mycroft’s lightly shivering body.

Definitely drunk.

“His fault anyway.” Mycroft mumbled, changing topic to an argument he thought he might win. “Stupid suppressants…”

There was the slightest scratchy hoarseness to Mycroft’s voice. As ever though someone was prepared and a large jug stood to the side with glasses.

“I thought it was the Sire who typically got blamed, not the doctor.” Greg brought the glass over and handed it to him.

“Even when incapacitated I must logically concede this situation was not your fault.” Mycroft gulped the contents, spilling some over his shaking hands.

“We’ll see if you’re still saying that in a few hours.” Greg retrieved the glass and refilled it.

“Are you cold?” He frowned.

“Shivering is a common bodily reaction to labour.” Mycroft spat back, calm voice turning acidic.

He broke off with a groan, fingers convulsing on the bed as another contraction rippled through him.

“It’s okay, it’s okay.” Greg hurried to the bed where his hand was snared in a bone crushing grip by Mycroft. “Breathe, Mycroft, aren’t you supposed to be breathing?” Greg looked towards the door, but Dr Koen was still outside.

“I am breathing.” Mycroft snapped back.

A moan followed his words and he squeezed Greg’s hand harder.

“Long breaths, you know, ooooo, huh u.” Greg demonstrated.

“You think?”

Only Mycroft Holmes could deliver that level of dry sarcasm whilst in the midst of a contraction.

“Well, I haven’t exactly been going to ante-natal classes now have I?” Greg snapped back. He took a deep breath. “Sorry, sorry.”

Contraction over Mycroft released Greg’s hand. A deep ache pulsed across the bones, which didn’t bode well for how Greg’d hold up during the active birth.

“Tell Ingrid,” the name was venomous, “I want my files, now.”

“So I’m not being summarily disposed of?” Greg raised an eyebrow.

He’d been expecting to be kicked out of Mycroft’s room and off the premises as soon as Mycroft had gathered enough scattered thought to do so.

“And who exactly would take care of that?” The irritation was tart. Greg smiled at the positive smorgasbord of emotions he was getting to see bursting free of Mycroft’s control. “Files, now!”

“You’re in labour.” Greg crossed his arms.

“Yes, thank you for pointing out the obvious.”

“Sometimes… Greg shook his head in fond exasperation. “You’re not working while you’re in labour, Mycroft.”

“Fuck off, Gregory.” Mycroft lay back, eyes closed again in exhaustion.

Greg’s lips twitched. He should probably be angry or insulted, but Mycroft descending to such common vernacular was a rare, and so amusing, incident.

“More water?” He asked instead.

“Yes, ple-gahhh…” Mycroft broke off, face contorted with pain.

Greg rushed back, surrendering his hand to Mycroft.

“How long have they been this close?” He asked, though he got no response until the contraction had passed.

“Hours.” Mycroft murmured, accepting the water though not Greg’s attempt to help steady it as he drank.

“How long does it go for? Are they going to get closer together? Are-”

“I thought you were reading your bloody books about this again.” Mycroft snatched his hand out of Greg’s tentative grip, covering his eyes with his arm and breathing heavily.

Yes, but not up to birth, Greg thought, his head spinning as silence fell.

Another contraction wracked Mycroft’s body, which he suffered through solely as he refused Greg’s offered fingers for abuse.

“You read my emails.” Greg said softly once Mycroft again lay silent on the bed,

Mycroft grunted uncommitted and moved his hand away from where Greg’s was pulling it into his grip. Greg pursued it across the bed, entangling their fingers in stubborn defiance. Mycroft didn’t pull away again.

Their hands were like them, literally them of course, but like them in the greater sense as well: Mycroft running away, Greg chasing belligerently after. Maybe he should have pushed harder earlier, entrapped and entwined their very selves. Maybe then Mycroft would have surrendered the way his loosely clasped fingers had, unresisting in Greg’s careful grip. Maybe that’s what Mycroft had wanted, proof Greg would always chase after him, no matter what.

Or maybe these were special circumstances.

Mycroft’s long fingers tightened around Greg’s, pressing hard enough his nails tilted into the wind roughened skin and dug in. Greg endured it willingly, bringing their joined hands to his lips and pressing kisses against Mycroft’s knuckles as his free hand curled into the covers.

This contraction seemed more painful and lasted longer. By the time it was through the shaking that had calmed slightly in the time since Greg arrived had intensified.

“My?” Greg took one of his hands away from his grip on Mycroft to smooth the stray hairs back from his eyes. “My are you-”

The next contraction engulfed Mycroft before Greg had finished.

“Shh, shh, I’m here, I’m here.” Greg leant over closer, hand running properly through the damp strands. “I’m here. Just breathe.”

“Leave.” Mycroft choked out.

His fingers countered his words, digging harder into Greg’s hand.

“Never.” Greg kissed his forehead. “Try and breathe with me, love. It’ll be over soon.”

“Ah..” Mycroft whimpered under him, head buried in Greg’s neck.

“I know, I know.” Greg whispered. “Come on, with me, in out, that’s it.”

After it was over, Greg stayed where he was a few moment, enjoying the shuddering feel of Mycroft against him, taking whatever small measure of comfort was available in Greg’s presence and scent.

“I told you to leave.” Mycroft repeated shakily.

“Only to get Dr Koen.” Greg replied. He kissed Mycroft’s temple, knowing he was taking liberties, but unable to stop himself as Mycroft’s body leant into every caress. “I’ll be right back.”

His hand was released abruptly, almost thrown away. Greg hesitated wanting to reassure Mycroft, but also wanting to fetch the doctor now that Mycroft’s labour really did seem to be progressing.

“Go.” Mycroft’s voice was cold.

One step forward, two steps back.

With a sigh Greg traipsed to the door, speeding up as the sound of Mycroft trying to hold back the pain of another contraction bled through despite the stubborn bureaucrat’s attempts to stay silent.

“Anthea, we- you’re here. Oh, good.”

Anthea and the doctor were standing outside the door, close at hand. As Dr Koen didn’t wait for Greg to speak before pushing past, Greg had to wonder whether they’d been waiting outside just to give him and Mycroft some time to talk.

“Can you give him anything for the pain?” Greg asked, resuming his prop beside Mycroft on the bed.

Mycroft growled and tried to bat Greg’s hands away, but Greg persevered, wrapping one arm around Mycroft’s shoulders and the other across his chest, clasping his right hand in Greg’s left.

“Unfortunately, I can’t give him more than I have.” Dr Koen pulled the sheet back. “You’ve almost fully dilated, that’s why the pain’s worse. You’re moving into the transition stage.”

“How much longer?” Mycroft half panted, half growled.

“Minutes to hours, I’m afraid. There is no way to predict.” Dr Koen shook his head. “It’s your first child and you’ve had an epidural, both of which suggest it may take some time.”

Mycroft crushed Greg’s hand, otherwise attempting to stay as blank as possible. Air hissed out through his teeth and when his grip on Greg’s hand released he began swearing creatively under his breath in foreign languages.

“Is there anything we can do to help with the pain?” Greg asked.

He wasn’t sure how much more his hand could take.

“Some people find massage can help their muscles relax.” Dr Koen offered the knowledge before turning to Mycroft’s chart to make notations.

“Touch me and spend the rest of your life working in a labour camp in Siberia.” Mycroft threatened as Greg opened his mouth.

Greg closed his mouth and didn’t comment on the fact he was practically wrapped around Mycroft as it was or that Mycroft himself was leaning into Greg’s body. He also didn’t comment on whether or not there were still labour camps in Siberia or whether Mycroft had the authority to send him there, probably as a gift wrapped apology to the Russians.

The next half hour was spent alternating between Mycroft leaning into Greg’s support and coldly telling him he was not needed and to leave. Several times Mycroft got as far as pushing Greg away. His resolve lasted through two sets of contractions before the fingers Greg had left next to him on the threshold of Mycroft’s self-declared Greg-free zone were crushed again in Mycroft’s grip.

Dr Koen gave Greg a call button and left to gather… something. Possibly just to escape Mycroft’s multilingual threats.

Greg dropped a gentle kiss to the top of Mycroft’s head. Mycroft gave a light grumble, but nothing as vocal as he had been. It occurred to Greg as Mycroft whimpered shamelessly into his neck that Mycroft hated being forced to show such an obvious weakness. It was such a simple and obvious revelation that Greg felt increasingly stupid for not realising more quickly, especially as Mycroft, intentionally or not, stopped hiding exactly how much pain he was actually in now they were alone.

The screaming hurt to hear, muted as it was by Mycroft’s increasingly dry throat. He was reluctant to let untangle himself to fetch the water as Mycroft was either using him as a stress ball or slumped against him panting and whimpering.

“It’s harder for Omega.” Anthea appeared and passed him the glass.

Greg started slightly, he hadn’t heard her come in, but accepted the water gratefully.

“My, My come on. Sip this.” He coaxed. “Come on.”

“I hate you.” Mycroft mouthed.

It didn’t stop him sipping the water.

“I know.” Anthea replied.

She patted his arm and took the glass to be refilled.

“Harder?” Greg asked.

“For all nature has made Omegas the irresistible mate and perfect conception vehicle, it failed to make them ideal birthing machines. Our internal systems are almost exclusively geared towards conception, making labour and delivery excruciating and complicated.” Dr Koen returned, coming in with a pile of towels and the blue blanket Greg recognised from Harrods.

“That’s supposed to be in the nursery.” Greg couldn’t help tearing up a little.

Anthea gave him a secret smile.

“Okay, Mycroft, you’re fully dilated now, so if you feel the urge to push with the next contraction, go right ahead.” Dr Koen smiled reassuringly.

Mycroft panted into Greg’s neck and mumbled more insults in French.

“Be polite.” Greg whispered, dragging his lips over the crown of Mycroft’s head – the only place he could reach without moving. “He’s trying to help.”

Mycroft looked like he was going to say something snarky back, but a contraction stole his breath and motivation to speak.

“That’s it, Mycroft. Breath in, and exhale and push with the next wave, okay.” Dr Koen kept up a soothing litany.

Several contractions passed before Dr Koen told Mycroft just to breathe and not to push with the next contraction.

“The baby’s close to crowning and your body wants it out, but if we’re going to minimise tearing and the chance of infection, you’re going to have to resist the urge, okay? That’s it, just breathe. Pant a little, yes, like that. That will help reduce the urge.”

“It’ll be over soon.” Greg tried to sound confident.

“If you _ever_ come near me again,” Mycroft choked out through clenched teeth, “I am going to have you neutered.”

“See,” Greg let out a small laugh. “I said it would be my fault sooner or later.”

Mycroft groaned over his reply.

“You can push with the next contraction, Mycroft.” Dr Koen gathered the plush towels and moved them closer. “Gregory, the head is visible if you want to come and see.”

Greg considered it, but the way Mycroft held him tightly in place even before the contraction came made his actual choices clear.

The next few minutes were spent with Greg vibrating almost out of his skin with nerves as Dr Koen called out milestones: Crown, forehead, eyes, nose, head. The umbilical cord was tangled around their son’s neck, but despite Greg’s flash of panic it wasn’t tight enough to have caused any problems. Greg didn’t understand what the various noise making machines around him were saying, but Dr Koen reassured him briefly before both their attention was drawn back to Mycroft’s pain filled groan and the next contraction.

“Almost there, Mycroft. The shoulders are hardest.”

Greg thought Mycroft’s response was something along the lines of ‘fuck you’ in Polish, but it was hard to say.

“Come on, love.” He whispered into Mycroft’s hair. “You’re doing so well. Don’t you want to meet him?”

“You,” Mycroft’s voice was full of pain strewed anger, “try to do this, then you can-”

Greg winced in pain along with his Omega as Mycroft continued to try and break every bone in his hand.

“That’s it, that’s it-” Dr Koen’s voice was interrupted by a high pitched wail.

“That’s him.” Tears pricked Greg’s eyes. “That’s our baby, My.”

“Towels, Anthea. Mycroft, the contractions are going to calm a bit now, you get a break, so Gregory, do you want to come and cut the umbilical cord?” Dr Koen accepted the towels and wrapped them around the little crying bundle.

Greg’s eyes tore away from the baby to Mycroft. He desperately wanted to go and see his son up close, but it was up to Mycroft to let him go. Literally, as there was no way he could, would, tear his hand out of Mycroft’s grip.

“Go.” Mycroft gave him a weak, exhausted, but genuine smile.

“Like this.” Dr Koen handed him the scissors and showed him where to cut between the clamps. “Here you go.”

Greg put down the scissors with a shaking hand and nervously accepted the towel swathed bundle from Dr Koen. The baby, his son, was red and purple, with a little scrunched up face and a smattering of dark hair glued down to his skull by the birthing fluid.

“He looks like a little alien.” Greg choked out, completely overwhelmed.

He vaguely heard Anthea chuckle somewhere behind him.

“He’s still squashed from the birthing.” Dr Koen laughed gently. “Take him up to Mum so Mycroft can see him.”

Greg nodded numbly, eyes glued to the little boy in his arms. He felt hand catch him and redirect him around the bed. He assumed he’d been going the wrong way, maybe heading into a wall, but he hadn’t looked up to see, eyes stuck firmly on the little arms waving clumsily in the air.

“He’s so little.” He whispered as Anthea, of course Anthea, guided him to a stop next to Mycroft.

“Alphas and Omegas are always a little on the small side. I’ll weigh and measure him properly in a few minutes.” Dr Koen was washing his hands in a basin in the corner.

Mycroft didn’t say anything, holding his son gently against his chest in silence. One finger carefully stroked over the back of his hand, sending Greg into hysterical giggles as the baby hiccupped and let out a righteous squeal.

Mycroft looked slightly affronted at the noise, but the fine creases around his eyes softened his gaze as his finger tentatively retraced its path.

Greg was struggling not to cry. Everything was suddenly overwhelming: the panic, the relief, the tiny baby with his ten perfect little fingers and ten tiny toes lying on Mycroft’s chest, barely visible in his soft warm wrapping, the soft warm look in Mycroft’s eyes as he watched at their son making Greg hope, hope, hope in a heart already full to bursting love it hurt, hurt, hurt.

A handkerchief was pressed into his hand.

“He’s beautiful.” Mycroft whispered.

He glanced up and Greg thought Mycroft’s face softened as he looked at Greg, but that might have just been Greg hoping, hoping, hoping again. The expression didn’t last long enough to catch, not when so much rode on its veracity, before Mycroft’s face contorted in pain.

“My?” Greg stepped forward. “Is something wrong? Is he okay?”

“It’s just his body preparing to pass the afterbirth and the mucus plug.” Dr Koen reassured them both. “Now, this might take some time, but it won’t be as painful as before, I promise.”

Greg picked up his son, holding him carefully as Mycroft struggled to hide how much it hurt.

“Just keep breathing. While you’re passing the after birth I’ll get this little guy washed and weighed, okay?” Dr Koen asked cheerfully.

It wasn’t so much a question as a carefully framed direction. He held out his arms.

“You’re welcome to come next door with us.” Dr Koen smiled at Greg’s obvious reluctance to hand over the baby.

Greg hesitated as another wave of pain broke over Mycroft’s face. He didn’t want to leave Mycroft here alone and in pain, but his instincts were screaming at him not to let his son out of his sight.

“It’s common for Alphas not to want to leave the baby or their partner.” Dr Koen sensed his dilemma. “I can assure you Ingrid has been instructed what to watch for if anything goes wrong, and while her knowledge is mainly theoretical, it is extensive. We’ll be right next door, and it will be relatively quick. Just washing him off, putting him in something nice and warm, and collect some basic newborn test data, length, weight, that sort of thing so I can fill in the birth certificate.”

Greg didn’t think the words were directed solely at him, and sure enough the same indecision was writ large across Mycroft’s features in between grimaces of pain.

“Go.” Mycroft nodded.

Where before the word had been used as a banishment, an icy wall. This time their gaze held a shared purpose: look after him, protect him, love him. Greg nodded back, and didn’t ask whether Mycroft was sure. His face very clearly said he was.

“Right next door.” Dr Koen reminded them both.

He picked up the blue blanket and guided Greg out the door and down the corridor. It wasn’t far, but when every step was haunted by indecision the few feet it was, was too far.

Details of the room flew past Greg. He knew there were more machines beeping and blinking and whining away, and that there was furniture he navigated around, but it was all an inconsequential blur compared to the most important thing in his arms.

“Come here.” Dr Koen waved him over.

Reluctantly Greg obeyed and handed over the baby.

“I have to say,” Dr Koen’s voice was bright and relaxed, professionally designed to calm, while his hands were brisk and fluid, “you and Mycroft are a fascinating case. It’s certainly a change to have to deal with the both of you. A nice change, definitely. My colleagues have told some stories at the pub about overbearing panicked Alphas during labour, let me tell you. Much more pleasant and everyone’s much more reasonable this way round, if you don’t mind me saying, though an Omega who can kick his attending out whenever he wants is somewhat of a health risk I suppose.”

Dr Koen kept chattering as he pushed buttons and twiddled knobs. He finished just as the little boy bawled up his face to started crying, picking him up off the scale in a smooth movement and handing him back to Greg.

“There you are. 5lbs, even and 35.4 cms long. A little on the small side, but well within the range for a baby Alpha or Omega. He’ll do a lot of growing in the next few days to catch up. It will certainly be interesting to watch him grow.”

“So you’re not just-” Greg tried to ask while juggling the unexpected baby back in his arms.

“An Obgyn? No, not at all. I had to do a crash course in midwifery to look after Mycroft through this. I’m an Omegologist. Related field and sometimes I have patients I guide through the beginning of pregnancy, but I usually have someone else handle the actual late term stages and labour. Not an option here, for obvious reason.”

Dr Koen was washing his hands again in a basin of water. Another jug sat on a hot plate keeping warm, which Greg figured made sense as there was no adjoining bathroom for hot water.

The baby in his arm fussed again, face screwing up as he let out little cries.

“Hold him close to your chest.” Dr Koen had dried his hands and was now laying out the blanket and the clothing that was inside. “He’ll recognise your scent.”

Nervously Greg pulled him in closer. His son kept fussing, little arms and legs flailing, but his cries quieted.

“Can’t you go a little faster?” Greg asked nervously.

Dr Koen’s movements were all efficient, but slow. There was no great urgency, no great drive behind his actions while Greg could feel it nipping at his heels.

“No need to rush.” Dr Koen dipped a soft cloth in the warming jug and gestured Greg back over. “This last stage is a, frankly, disgusting process and most Omegas don’t want a lot of people witnessing it, let alone someone as image conscious as Mycroft Holmes.”

He wiped the cloth over the damp strands of hair, patting after with a clean corner of the towel.

“Ingrid will fetch me if I’m required, and in time honoured tradition of getting Dad out of the room we get to clean this little guy up.”

The cloth was wiped over and around the little fingers and up the long, chubby arms. This wasn’t appreciated by the new Holmes-Lestrade who started wailing as loudly as possible.

“Healthy lungs, that’s good.” Nothing seemed to dull the cheer in Dr Koen’s voice, even though Greg was all too familiar with the pinch between his eyebrows that usually signified a migraine. “Come here Dad, give him your finger. Yep, just like that. Palmer’s reflex. See little boy, he’s right here and Mummy’s right next door and you’ll be back with him as soon as you’re both cleaned up.”

This didn’t settle him, though Greg’s pinky was grasped with all the miniscule strength in his son’s grip.

“He’s probably getting cold and hungry.” Dr Koen’s wiping was a little faster now. “Have you ever put on a nappy before?”

“No.” Greg felt bewildered.

“You’ll have done plenty before the weekend is over, but I’ll do this one. It’s all right little one, we’ll have you back with Mummy soon.”

The length of material Greg had thought was a large handkerchief or spare towel was quickly wrapped around the clean, dry bottom and secured. Just as fast a pale cream onsie was pulled on and press studded into place. A little cream hat followed and before he knew it, the blue blanket was around the baby and he was back in Greg’s arms.

“Why don’t you two sit here and get acquainted.” Dr Koen guided them over to an antique rocking chair, manoeuvring Greg around it’s runners as he was utterly captivated once again by the bundle in his arms and had eyes for nothing else. “I’ll check how Mycroft’s going and see if he’s up for visitors yet.”

Greg nodded absently; too busy studying the little face looking up at him from the crook of his arms. Logically he knew his son was too young to be actually looking and seeing, but the pale eyes were seemingly focused straight on his face was they watched each other.

The nose was his, Greg decided proudly, as was the chin, but the chubby little cheeks could well be pure Holmes underneath the baby fat and his little rosebud nose mouth looked to be fuller than either Greg or Mycroft’s. More like Uncle Sherlock so that was probably a Holmes gene coming through there. Greg knew babies eyes quite often changed colour after birth so the almost colourless peepers that blinked up at him might yet darken to his own brown, or might stay light and fluid like Sherlock, or settle into Mycroft’s near stable grey-green.

With only his Sire and Uncle to compare to really on his side, and the Holmes brothers on the other it was hard to see which side the baby favoured more. Part of Greg hoped the baby looked after him, but another marvelled at the fascination of watching a little look-alike Mycroft growing up.

Mycroft had to compromise, he just had to because Greg couldn’t leave this little guy alone, not in a million years.

“Detective Inspector.” Anthea’s voice broke his reverie. She smiled at him in tired exultation.

Greg wondered what dopey love-struck look was on his own face.

“An adorable one. Come on through.”

Dr Koen stepped out of the birthing room as they approached, bringing with him a bulging laundry bag.

“All yours. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve been up for a good 36 hours and am off to sleep.” He waved goodbye, cheerful mask slipping as task finished, his exhaustion bled through.

Anthea took the laundry bag from his unresisting hand and shepherded him down the corridor, leaving Greg and the baby alone.

“Let’s go meet your Mummy then.” Greg whispered.

He opened the door with his hip, unwilling to take two hands off the baby. Mycroft was lying on the bed in new pyjamas. The sheets smelt like sun and outdoors, the old ones clearly the contents of the laundry bag. Through the miracle that was Anthea, Mycroft had managed a wash of some kind and looked merely tired rather than tired and sweaty.

“Hey.” Greg said quietly. “Got someone to meet you.”

Mycroft’s eyes fluttered open and gave a rundown smile. “Have you now?”

“Yeah.” Greg sat on the edge of the bed, mouth in his throat. Moment of truth. “What are we going to call him?”

“Abernathy.” Mycroft replied.

The bottom dropped out of Greg’s world. He’d not realised how much he really had let himself hope until it was yanked away, burning from his chest to his gut where it churned and roiled and made him feel like throwing up. He felt disconnected from the world as if everything was just a bad trip. It felt like the first time he’d challenged Mycroft and had almost collapsed in a shaking shock-y heap. It felt like that first walk from the Yard to Mycroft’s house where the colours and sounds had leeched from the world, leaving him a ghost in reality, unable to hear or see or process.

He was so instantly lost, so deeply thrown into his own turmoil, he almost didn’t realise Mycroft was still speaking.

“-Francois Holmes.”

“What?” Greg blinked, trying not to clutch the baby too tightly in his arms and squash him.

Mycroft leant back and closed his eyes, not looking at Greg, his usual tactic when he felt guilty or ashamed of showing sentiment.

“Abernathy Francois Holmes.” He repeated.

One hand nonchalantly moved to rest on Greg’s thigh, its owner trying to pretend it didn’t mean anything.

Tears pricked Greg’s eyes again, and one broke free to trickle down his cheek.

“Abernathy Francois Holmes.” He whispered in a clogged voice. “It’ll be years before you know, but meet your Mummy. He and I are very pleased you’re here.”

He handed the little bundle over to Mycroft who took it, holding him in one arm so the other hand could stay resting on Greg.

A declaration, commitment, compromise. Willingness to try. As he curled his bruised hand back around his love’s fingers, the hope didn’t rest quite so heavily in Greg’s heart.

Abernathy Francois Holmes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end. Before anyone starts going "huh, how on earth is that a positive end?", Greg's middle name in this verse is Francois, so in a sense, Mycroft just named the baby after him. Ish. It's a start. I can't remember off the top of my head which chapters it's mentioned in, but at last count I think I managed to get it in at least four, so if you feel like a treasure hunt, avant me hearties!
> 
> For those who would like to know, Mycroft's middle name is Ptolemy. Sherlock clues Greg into this in the chapter where Greg and John get very, very drunk.
> 
> There will be a part III (and a part IV). It's taken me 230k words to get them together and willing to try to get on the same page, so there is certainly more to tell. For those wanting more John and Sherlock, they have a much larger role in the next part. Moriarty is back! The title is Rolling in the Deep. Yes, as in the Adele song, and yes, you could consider the song spoilery if you wish.
> 
> In terms of the when, I've currently got 7 chapters written, but as I am old fashioned and use a pen and paper, there are only 5 of those on the computer and I haven't had a chance to edit them much yet. I won't finish the whole thing before posting because I don't want you to have to wait too long (predicting around 25 chapters for this one at the minute), so hopefully I'll be able to start posting it early April. It will be a slower positing schedule though. Sorry.
> 
> If there are any scenes you would particularly like to see, any sex scenes you want to request or fluffy moments with Ben, just let me know/leave suggestions and I'll try to work as many of them in as possible. (Ben's the baby, by the by. Greg's not going to be calling him by his full name!)
> 
> Lastly, thanks so much all of you for sticking through this. I know it's been a somewhat depressing journey, but hopefully in that good way. Every comment every person has left has been very much loved.
> 
> Ta ta for now.

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings for the story: (Please note, this is just whether they're mentioned, not whether or not they're treated graphically. I'll over list, and if there's something you think might worry you, feel free to leave a comment or send a message and as for more details.)
> 
> BDSM, Sub-drop, Non-con, Dub-con, murder, child abuse, emotional abuse, incest, abortion, infidelity, sexism, biology
> 
> In case you're wondering, we'll be following Greg on some cases. These warnings aren't all relevant to our main four characters. 
> 
> I'll post what is actually Chapter 1, but due to AO3's lack of provision for a Prologue will be called Chapter 2 on Wednesday.


End file.
